


Dispatches from District 12

by Xerxia



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: A little bit of everything, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Canon Compliant, Explicit Language, F/M, Ficlets, Fluff, Smut, Tumblr, always lots of f-bombs, everlark, lots of f-bombs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-12
Updated: 2018-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-19 23:28:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 46
Words: 75,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5984347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xerxia/pseuds/Xerxia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of ficlets and drabbles I've written on Tumblr.  All Everlark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Everlark first kiss

**Author's Note:**

> This will just be a collection of bits and pieces I write that don't fit elsewhere, ficlets and drabbles from Tumblr, snippets that won't work in my current stories but that I don't want to lose. Canon, AU, everything in between, but all Everlark all of the time.

An Everlark first kiss (a little blurb I wrote for #everlarkinlove this is a modern AU)  
\---

Our first kiss should have tasted like root beer and cherry lip balm. I was 13, Cato Clarke invited our entire 7th grade class to a party in his basement. The lights were low and we were sitting in a circle on the floor, all fidgety energy and awkward laughing. When it was my turn to spin the bottle I prayed to every deity I'd ever read about for it to land on her. Katniss.

Katniss Everdeen and I had been in the same class at our tiny District 12 school since kindergarten, and I'd had a crush on her nearly as long. The beautiful girl with silver eyes and raven hair and a voice that made the rest of the world fall silent.

That night at Cato's house she was sitting beside Madge Undersee, playing nervously with the hem of her red plaid shirt. I caught her eyes as I let go of the bottle, and a pretty blush lit her olive cheeks.

But the odds weren't in my favour that night. Cato's dad appeared at that moment, breaking up the game before the bottle even came to a stop.

...

Our first kiss should have tasted like watermelon and sunscreen. Madge's Sweet 16 pool party was going to be the big event of the summer, it was all anyone could talk about for weeks. I'd spent those weeks dreaming about seeing Katniss is a bikini (and much of that with my fist in my shorts.) But she never showed up at the party, and no one knew why.

It was days later that I heard about the heart attack that had stolen her father and her childhood in one devastating blow.

...

Our first kiss should have tasted like spiked punch and freedom. I wanted to ask her to prom so bad, had been psyching myself up to do so when the rumours started swirling. Gale Hawthorne, who'd been the 'alpha male' football playing hotshot of our high school until he graduated the year before, was coming back from college to grace us peons with his presence at prom. Apparently he was accompanying one of the seniors. My heart sank; it could only have been Katniss, they'd been inseparable until he left, and linked for years.

So I asked Clove Phillips to be my date, then spent the whole evening looking over her shoulder.

Katniss was wearing a silver gown that matched her beautiful eyes, and she'd come stag. She spent most of the evening alone by the punch bowl, watching Gale and Madge, who came together, and _together_ , grind on the dance floor.

I felt like a complete asshole. Especially when I caught those silver eyes watching me sadly from across the room.

...

Our first kiss should have tasted like cheap beer and jungle juice. Even though I was a freshman I had no trouble securing an invite to the Delt kegger. Having two older brothers was occasionally advantageous.

The beer was a little too warm and the music a little too loud, and I was contemplating ditching early when I saw her. Katniss.

I knew she was a student at Panem U, but our paths hadn't crossed, not in the 6 weeks of classes, not in the two months of summer beforehand, not even once.

But she was there, playing flip cup with some older red-headed guy who was keeping her cup full, even as he openly leered at her long lean legs, gorgeously displayed in a short denim skirt. I waited anxiously for a pause in the game, for Red to wander back to the keg, then I approached her.

She was drunk. She was so drunk I wasn't sure at first if she even recognized me. But then she narrowed her silver eyes at me. "Why don't you ever talk to me, Peeta?" she asked. "You look at me, all of the time, but you never say a word." I couldn't answer, shocked that she'd ever noticed me watching her, and distracted by the sound of my name on her lips.

She made a small, displeased huff, then stomped away with a scowl. I chased her; through the frat house, out the front door and across the lawn. "Wait," I begged. "Please Katniss."

"Why?" she snapped, spinning to face me and wobbling unsteadily, a storm in her eyes. "What's your story, Mellark?" she spat. "You stare at me, tell your friends you like me, but then you refuse to even talk to me." She moved closer, taking my breath away with her proximity. "You. Never. Talk. To. Me." She was slurring slightly, punctuating each word with a jab of her finger in my chest.

"I wanted to, so much Katniss, you have to believe me!"

"Then why?" she choked, and when I didn't immediately answer she turned away again. I couldn't let her go, and reached for her arm. She spun and shoved me hard, both of us ended up sprawled in the damp grass, shocked. Then her defiant expression fell, and her silver eyes shimmered. "I know I'm not the easiest person to talk to," she whispered, her eyes lowered to her lap.

"Fuck," I groaned. "No, Katniss, no, you're amazing. I'm just a coward. A fucking coward." She flopped backwards in the grass and I crawled over to her. "I'm so sorry. You must think I'm such a dick." I collapsed in the grass beside her, the damp bleeding through my shirt.

She rolled onto her side, facing me. "Kind of," she admitted, but with a soft smile. "You're just so friendly with everyone else. You have like a thousand friends. And you look at me like you want to talk to me but then you never do."

"You intimidate me," I admitted, and she scowled. "I'm serious, Katniss. You're fierce and so hot, and you don't even know the effect you have..." She stared at me skeptically. "Can we start again?" I flashed her my biggest smile and held my breath.

"Sure, Peeta," she laughed, and sat up, still swaying a little. I had my doubts about whether she'd even remember this in the morning, but I wasn't going to waste my chance.

I stuck out my hand and she shook it with an amused expression. "I'm Peeta," I said, and she laughed.

"I'm glad to meet you," she said softly.

I walked her back to her dorm. She threw up twice along the way. By the time we got there she was staggering, heavy-eyed, and I carried her up the stairs. She was out cold when I set her on what I hoped was her bed. Then I sat on the floor and played on my phone.

When her roommate showed up an hour later I left Katniss in her care, but not before programming my number into Katniss's phone.

...

Our first kiss tasted like pent-up longing and relief (and hot chocolate).

She phoned me the next morning. "I just wanted to make sure you got home."

I laughed. "Katniss, I live three buildings away from you.” I was touched by her concern, by her awkward attempt to reach out to me. “How are you feeling today?"

"Ugh," she moaned. "Better not to ask." But I could hear her smile down the phone line.

"Let me take you out for breakfast. Sae's is my super secret hangover cure." I expected she'd brush me off, but she surprised me.

I picked her up 20 minutes later. We chatted over breakfast, and then stayed for lunch. It was like we were packing 13 years of discussion into one glorious day. I never wanted it to end. Katniss was everything I always imagined she'd be: intelligent, interesting, insightful. And she was unexpectedly funny, sassy and sarcastic.

I was a goner.

The first fingers of fall pressed into us as we wandered the campus, hand in hand. She suggested the coffee shop, though neither of us liked coffee.

Hands warmed, cheeks flushed we ended up at her dorm again. And as she stared up at me with silver eyes shining I thought of all of the kisses we'd missed out on over the years. I wasn't going to let this opportunity pass me by. Not this time.

"Katniss..." I paused, suddenly inexplicably shy, even after hours of comparing family histories and favourite colours. She stepped closer, biting at the smile that threatened to steal across her perfect peach lips.

Then her hand was fisting my collar, pulling me down, and our lips were meeting in the most searingly perfect collision of soft and firm and wet and hot.

She explored my mouth methodically and my tongue eagerly met hers stroke for stroke. When her hands twisted in my hair I pressed her back against her dorm room door, cradling her face in my hands, pouring every minute of longing into our kiss. Her body moved with mine in a primal dance, even as we spoke our mutual desire into each other.

When we finally broke apart she smiled up at me with swollen lips and pupils blown wide. "I've wanted to do that for years," I confessed, gasping before she kissed me again.

"Was it worth the wait?" she whispered against my lips, a chocolate scented tease. I moaned.

"Yes, so worth it. But I don't want to wait that long to kiss you again," I begged, my forehead pressed to hers, our lips still brushing languidly.

"Then I guess you'd better come in," she said with a laugh, tugging me after her.


	2. Frosting words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This plot bunny was hopping through my head and wouldn’t leave me alone.  
> An in-Panem AU ficlet. Rated K. Under the cut because even plot bunnies get wordy in my world. (Also, I seriously suck at titles.)

Every Saturday.  
  
Like clockwork, every Saturday Primrose Everdeen would show up just after lunchtime to peer into the cake display window. And every time she'd be accompanied by her bored-looking older sister. It didn't matter that Prim was 14 now, certainly old enough to wander around town without her big sister as escort. They always came together.  
  
And Peeta had been watching them, every Saturday for years.  
  
Truthfully, he was watching Katniss. Oh Prim was adorable, it's true, and her sweet little face would light up when she caught sight of whatever new creations he'd set out that morning. But surly, scowling Katniss Everdeen was the one who he watched. He'd been watching her for 13 long years, and in all of that time he'd never said a single word to her. Never once in class, never once in the market or around town, never even when she came to trade at the back door of the bakery.  
  
It was infuriating. He had no shortage of friends, could charm teachers and customers alike with his silver tongue, but he could not work up the courage to speak to the girl he'd had a crush on since before he even knew what a crush was.  
  
And he was running out of time.  
  
Their final reaping was just a week away. Assuming they both survived, he was sure Gale Hawthorne would ask Katniss to marry him, maybe even on reaping day. Gale and Katniss had been inseparable for years, since not long after her father died, and it just seemed inevitable that they would end up together, two kids from the Seam, strong and proud and so very alike.

 

He had to find a way to speak to her before that happened. To tell her that he thought she was magnificent, that he admired her strength and her fire. That she was beautiful, more radiant than the sun.

 

But the days passed by, and while he continued to stare at her in their shared classes he couldn't think of anything to speak to her about, no way to break the ice.

 

Early Friday morning Katniss came to the back door of the bakery with a pair of fat squirrels to trade, like usual. And, like usual, Peeta snuck what he hoped were surreptitious glances at her while she bartered with his father. But then she lifted her liquid mercury eyes to his, and for once he didn't look away. And she smiled.

 

Katniss Everdeen smiled at him.

 

She was gone before he could react and he almost couldn't believe it had happened. But the look his father was giving him convinced him it had been real.

 

The idea came to him in history class. Katniss sat one row ahead and one row to the right of him in their daily dose of Capitol propaganda. She always spent the class looking out the window. He always spent the class looking at her, and often sketching her in the margins of his notebook. When the bell rang he realized that he'd filled the page with coils of braids, stacked upon each other. Stacked almost like a cake.

 

Lunchtime found him in the library, a place he'd admittedly avoided most of his school career, and it took him nearly the entire hour to track down what he was looking for. _Botanica Panem, the Illustrated Guide_.

 

Fridays from right after school until deep into the evening Peeta worked on cakes. He'd been decorating cakes for years, his artistry and clever hands far better suited to the delicate work of sculpting gum paste flowers than those of his brothers. When his oldest brother, Brann, left the bakery a couple of years ago to start working at the Justice Building, Peeta became the only Mellark who decorated cakes. His father gave him free reign to do as he wished with the cakes, there had never once been a customer complaint and nearly every one sold.

 

His father baked the cakes during the day and left them on Peeta's prep table. By the time he got home from school they were cooled and ready to frost. A summer Friday so close to the Reaping would generally mean four cakes waiting for Peeta, but this time there were five. Perfect.

 

He quickly put together the first four, covered them with roses and violets and butterflies, knowing that those were the embellishments that merchant girls loved and begged their fathers to buy. The fifth though, it was going to be different. It was going to be special.

 

He'd spent all afternoon with _Botanica_ , instead of his textbooks. Sketching different angles of three-petalled flowers and arrow-shaped leaves instead of writing out math equations. Now he set about recreating them in gum paste and fondant. They had to be perfect, it was his last chance. The Reaping was Sunday.

 

It was painstaking work, and he was at it well past sundown, frosting by lamplight in the dim kitchen. He had just added the last piece when his father appeared, and let out a low whistle.

 

At first glance it was deceptively plain, an all-white cake. But looking more closely, it was encircled by braids of white fondant interwoven with delicate white Katniss blossoms. The bold arrow leaves were also done in white, and dainty sugar pearls were scattered in between. The more closely you looked, the more complex the design revealed itself to be.

 

It was stunning. Next to the garish purples and pinks of the other cakes it seemed to recede into the background, but once you really looked it was clearly the most beautiful by far.

 

After a few moments of stunned silence his father cleared his throat. "That'd make a fine toasting cake for a special lady."  Peeta only nodded.

 

He was a bundle of nerves when he took the cakes out of the cooler and arranged them in the display case. It was a busy morning though, with the Reaping the next day people needed to pick up two days worth of bread.  Before Mrs. Mellark's death a year and a half earlier, the bakery stayed open for a half day on Reaping day, but Peeta's father was a much more sensitive soul who preferred to remain closed.

 

It was busy enough that Peeta almost missed her.

 

He'd just finished bagging up an order for the florist's son when his eyes drifted to the display window. It was her hand that caught his attention. His mother used to erupt when people touched the window glass, even though keeping it clean was near impossible anyway with the coal dust that continually blanketed the district.

 

He'd never seen Katniss touch the window before, in fact he'd often observed her chiding Prim against getting too close, lest her nose rub against the glass in her enthusiasm to see all of the cake details.

 

But Prim was keeping her distance from the glass, standing just behind her sister, looking over her shoulder. Katniss, though, Katniss had one hand on the display window and the other clamped over her own mouth. Her eyes were wide as saucers. Even from where he stood beside the register he could tell she was looking at her cake. HER cake, because of course everything about it was designed with HER in mind. Braids and Katniss flowers, and all in pure white. The cake was a love song, sung only for her.

 

She looked up then, and like the day before their eyes locked. Time stood still for Peeta as he waited for her reaction. It felt like an eternity that they stood on opposite sides of the glass, gazes locked.

 

Her hand lifted off the glass and she pointed at herself in question. He nodded slowly, unblinking.

 

Then a customer moved in front of him, calling for his attention, snapping the bond.

 

When he was able to look again she was gone. He moved her cake back to the cooler anyway, just in case, but she didn't return.

 

Reaping day dawned bright and cloudless, with the promise of a hot, sultry day. Peeta spent a quiet morning with his father and middle brother, who was apprenticed to the town cabinetmaker and betrothed to the cabinetmaker's pretty blonde daughter. Peeta only had 7 slips in the bowl, he was as safe as any 18 year old could be, but his stomach was in knots worrying about Katniss. He knew she had 28 slips, she'd been taking tesserae since her father died, and he was terrified for her. There were kids with more slips to be sure, but 28 was a lot.

 

The unsettled feeling continued as he checked in and joined the other 18 year old boys in the pen closest to the front, on the right. He was chatting with his friends but glancing periodically at the girls' side.

 

She showed up about 5 minutes before 2, holding hands with Madge Undersee, the mayor's daughter, in the pen for 18 year old girls. He was so used to seeing her in tunics and trousers that the blue dress she wore only on Reaping day was surprising, but he thought she was beautiful in anything.  

 

As he watched, she craned her neck to search through the boys' holding area and he held his breath. Was she looking for him?  Then their eyes met for the third time in three days. He tentatively lifted a hand in greeting and that beautiful, elusive smile painted her features again. He held her gaze as long as he could, until the crowd filled in and he could only catch glimpses of her glossy black braid.

 

He felt like he’d held his breath the entire Reaping, only releasing it when both tributes were standing on the stage. And while he was generally a gentle soul who felt badly for the children chosen, this year all he felt was relief. Katniss was safe. Forever.

 

He was enveloped in strong arms before he could seek her out, his father hugging him hard, joined almost right away by his two brothers and his eldest brother's wife. He allowed himself to be buoyed by their congratulations, surrounded by their love. There was a time, not too long ago, when he was certain that no one needed him, but they'd all grown so much closer since his mother's death.

 

After much hugging and backslapping his little family split, with promises to meet again later for a celebratory dinner. Brann and his wife headed home, Rye went to check in with his girlfriend and her family. Peeta's father went to the Justice building, to bring cookies to the condemned children, leaving Peeta alone in the square.

 

The crowd dissipated quickly, only a handful of stragglers remained.  Katniss was nowhere to be seen. He wanted so very much to run down the path towards the Seam, to seek her out, but he just couldn't. Instead he headed towards to bakery. Alone.

 

He almost missed it, he was so distracted feeling sorry for himself that he nearly crushed it under his foot. There, laying on the back step of the bakery, was a little bundle of flowers, tied with a faded bit of ribbon. A posy. An ancient lovers gift.

 

But this wasn't any posy. His hours with _Botannica_ ensured that he knew the stalks of three-petalled white flowers, even though it was the first time he'd ever actually seen them.

 

Katniss flowers.

 

There was no doubt that she'd left them, there were none growing anywhere inside the district fence, and none of the vapid little town girls would ever care about the tiny, quirky white blooms clustered on sturdy stems.

 

When he stooped to pick them up he found a scrap of paper underneath, weighted by the flowers against the summer breeze. His heart pounded as he unfolded it. Written in cramped cursive was a single sentence, _'Meet me here at midnight.'_ It was unsigned.

 

Katniss wanted to speak to him.

 

He wasn’t sure why, though he imagined she wanted to ask him about the cake. What other reason could there be? He only hoped she wasn’t angry with him.  Or, oh God, what if she wanted it for her toasting with Gale Hawthorne?

 

He was a mess all through dinner, barely listening to his family, grunting single word answers when they asked about his plans now that his future was calm. His future was far from calm he wanted to scream at them. He was finally going to speak with the girl of his dreams, the girl he’d been pining after for years.  Tonight!

 

Midnight is awfully late for a baker who rises at 3:30am to stoke the ovens, and he knew it would make sense to go to sleep and set an alarm to wake him but he couldn’t. Not only because he just wouldn’t risk sleeping through the alarm and missing what might be his only chance, but also because he was strung tight as a wire with nerves. He had wanted to talk to her for the past thirteen years and had never screwed together enough courage to even say hello. Even that awful day when he’d thrown burned bread to her while she huddled under the apple tree, so close to death that just the memory brought terror to his heart, even that day he hadn’t said a word.

 

He was a coward.

 

Would he find the courage to speak to her if she showed up? Would she show up at all?  

 

He crept down to the bakery just after 11, worried that his pacing would disturb his father, who also needed to rise before 4. The electricity was out, which was no surprise, the Capitol ensured there was plenty of power for the cameras to record the Reaping, but once the train pulled away lonely little District 12 was plunged back into darkness. No matter, the moon was nearly full and the bakery faintly glowed in the silver light that streamed through the windows, giving a vaguely surreal aura to his surroundings.

 

He stepped out the back door, into the moonlight. The heat of the day had dissipated, but the late June night was balmy, the air still, only the faint cries of crickets and peepers split the silence of the sleepy district.

 

"You're early." He nearly jumped out of his skin as her voice floated on the night air. Then he did jump as she leapt down from one of the sturdy branches of the apple tree and landed in front of him, delicate as a cat

 

"Katniss," he gasped, cringing at the breathiness of his voice. He'd said her name a thousand times before, in the mirror practicing what he'd say to get if he ever had a chance, in his bed under the cover of darkness, and it gave him a thrill every time. The name was as unique and beautiful as its bearer, who stood in front of him, silver eyes sparkling in the moonlight.

 

"Until yesterday, I wasn't certain you knew my name," she said softly and his jaw dropped. His first inclination was to make a joke, being self-deprecating was his nature, but the girl of his dreams was standing in front of him and it was his last chance. He took a step closer, and then another, closer than they’d ever been before, so close that he could touch her if he just lifted his hand. She held her ground.

 

"Of course I know your name.” His eyes were huge with shock, surely she’d noticed the way he had always stared at her. “I haven’t been able to take my eyes off you for years.”  

 

She regarded him with confusion, her lush lower lip trapped between teeth that glowed in the moonlight. “And you decorated a cake with my namesake flowers because…” she prompted.

 

He swallowed hard. “I've wanted to talk to you forever.”

 

“You made a special cake just so that I'd come talk to you?” He nodded, watching her intently. When her face twisted into the scowl that was practically her trademark it wasn't exactly the response he was hoping for. “I come to the bakery every week, Peeta. I've been doing it for years. You could have said hello any time.” She looked down at her feet. “Surely that would have been easier.”

 

He laughed, and her head snapped up to regard him. “I guess I've never done things the easy way.” A little smile played on her lips at his words. It gave him the courage to continue. “I.. I noticed you on the first day of school. And when you sang the Valley Song in music assembly that day... I was a goner.” Her eyebrows shot up at his words, her expression one of disbelief.

 

He crept closer still, until she had to tilt her face upward to look at him. The moonlight played across her face, making the smooth olive skin glow, lighting her eyes on fire. “I haven't stopped noticing you since. And for the past thirteen years I've tried to work up the nerve to talk to you."

 

“Why now then?”

 

He swallowed hard. “I… I thought it might be my last chance. School is done, now that the Reaping is over.” She nodded.

 

“But I'll still be here, to trade…”  Her voice trailed off, and he knew she'd guessed he was holding something back.

 

“I thought Gale would ask you to marry him today, after the Reaping,” he admitted quietly.

 

“He did.” How could two words hold such a world of pain? His heart felt like it had seized in his chest. He was too late. He was finally talking to her, and it was too late.

 

“Congratulations,” he said dully, and she snorted, an amused little sound so at odds with the ache in his soul his mouth dropped open.

 

“I said no. Gale is my best friend, that's all. I don't think of him that way.”

 

Peeta looked up at her with confusion. “Does he know that?”  At that she laughed, and it was so musical he nearly forgot his pain. He couldn't remember ever hearing her laugh. He wanted to hear it again and again.

 

“He does, yes. I think…” she trailed off, worrying that soft peach lip again and his eyes were drawn to her mouth. “It was expected, I think, that he'd ask me. It's what his mother wants. Mine too, maybe. But it isn't really what he wants.” She inched even closer, so close that he could see the freckles that dotted her nose, the wisps of hair curling around her ears that his fingers itched to tame.

 

“He's a good friend, Peeta. A good partner. And maybe, maybe before that would have been enough.”

 

“Before what?” he whispered, his lips so close to hers that he could think of nothing but how much he wanted to kiss her.

 

“Before I saw your cake.” His confusion was written on his face, but when she raised a hand to smooth the worry line between his brows it was replaced by an expression of utter awe. “Before I realized that the boy I like might like me back.”

 

He caught her hand in his own. “Katniss,” he said, and it was a question. A plea. She smiled then, dazzling and bright.

 

“I've noticed you too, Peeta. You're a baker. You're a painter. You never take sugar in your tea. And your bedroom window is always open.”

 

And then he kissed her. Her squeak of surprise morphed into a sigh. One hand cradled her face, the other wrapped around her waist, pulling her in, pressing them together. When her fingers twisted in his curls it was his turn to whimper.

 

When they finally broke apart they were both grinning shyly. “Katniss, can I, I mean, I'd like to, uh, if you'll allow it…” he was flustered, but she merely smiled, amused.

 

“Dinner. My house. Tomorrow. You have to meet my family, properly.  Bring your father too.” Then with one last peck on his lips she darted off down the alley behind the bakery, leaving Peeta dazed, wondering if it was real.

 

She stopped suddenly, glancing over her shoulder. “Hey, Peeta?” she called.

 

“Yeah?” He called back, absolutely uncaring of the fact that it was nearly midnight and he'd be disturbing his neighbours.

 

“Bring dessert.” She winked at him, and then she was gone.

 

He knew exactly what he would bring.

  


 


	3. Join Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon-compliant post mockingjay Everlark in the early days of their relationship, when everything is new. Smut without storyline, essentially.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written for shellibug on Tumblr, for the prompt: Everlark, 'Join me'. Canon-compliant post mockingjay pre epilogue. No plot, only smut :) This ficlet is rated explicit.

I always enter my house in Victor's Village through the back door, the one that leads directly into the kitchen. The front entry is too formal and too stuffy, and my kitchen is the hub of my house anyway. Today, though, I’m surprised to find the kitchen empty. I’ve been at the construction site for my soon-to-be finished bakery all day, but Katniss left a couple of hours ago, telling me she’d see me at home.

 

Home. Our home, that we share now. That thought never fails to make me giddy.

 

We’ve grown together in the many months I’ve been back in Twelve, learning to be friends even as we struggled to care for ourselves. But slowly friendship grew to be something more, and two weeks ago, after she told me that what we have together is real, I asked her to move in with me, officially. She agreed.

 

So I’m confused that the kitchen, in fact the entire main floor, is dark and quiet.

 

Her bow is by the door, so she’s not hunting, and I sincerely doubt she’s out visiting Haymitch. They care about each other in a grudging sort of way that doesn’t extend to frequent social visits.

 

I’m worried that maybe she’s having a bad day, maybe that’s why she left so abruptly. Maybe I’ll find her in bed, staring at the wall. I climb the stairs with some trepidation.

 

But the bedroom is empty too, the bed neatly made. "Katniss?" I call.

 

"I'm in here," her voice drifts from beyond the open bathroom door, and I follow it without question.

 

When I enter the room I stop dead. The air is thick and sultry, clouds of lavender-scented steam swirl around my head. The bathroom is lit only by candles that flicker on the counter and windowsill, even though I know the electricity is working.  

 

Then I see her.

 

Katniss is reclined in the bathtub, surrounded by bubbles. Huge piles of bubbles. "Holy shit," I breathe. I bet she's naked under those bubbles. The blood leaves my head and rushes south, my pants becoming uncomfortably snug. It's like one of my fantasies come to life. She smiles, looking up at me through her lashes, cheeks flushed. She has no idea, how sexy she is.

 

"Hi," she says softly, and it snaps me out of my stupor. She's bathing, and I'm standing here leering at her like some sort of creep.

 

"I’m sorry, I didn't mean," I start, backing away but she cuts me off.

 

"Wait!" I stop in the doorway, wide-eyed. She stretches a hand towards me, an errant cluster of bubbles slip sinuously down her arm. "Join me," she says.

 

I can't have heard that right.

 

Those quicksilver eyes are wide, almost pleading, locked onto mine, and she pinches her bottom lip between her teeth.

 

I twitch hard in my pants.

 

I advance slowly, giving her plenty of opportunity to scream at me or demand I leave, but she's silent. Finally I’m standing right beside the tub, gripping her wet hand in my own like a lifeline.

 

"You, uh, you w-want me to… to, uh, k-keep you c-company?” The intensity of her gaze makes me drop my own eyes. “Holy shit,” I whisper again. Bubbles are not as opaque as I would have guessed, and her breasts are clearly visible through the foam. I can feel my cheeks heating, even as my cock throbs, and I can’t tear my eyes away.

 

Our sexual relationship is new, so very new. Katniss and I have had sex exactly 4 times. Four mind-blowing times. I’m still not at the point where seeing any part of her body doesn’t feel like an illicit thrill.

 

I’ll probably never be at that point.

 

I only lift my eyes away from those tempting peaks when she softly clears her throat. She’s shaking her head, just slightly, and I try to remember, with what little blood remains in my head, what she’s saying no to. Her eyes twinkle with amusement, as if she can tell I’m utterly incapable of rational thought right now. She shifts, the water sloshing and swirling around her as she scoots forward a little, sluicing away most of the foam, leaving her breasts bare and dripping, her nipples hard despite the warmth of the room.

 

“Join me, Peeta,” she repeats, her voice husky. When I make no move she clarifies. “Take off your clothes.”

 

It takes another few moments to register her second command, but when I do I rip my shirt off as fast as possible, my pants and shorts follow suit. I straighten after tossing them aside only to realize that my rigid cock is now pointing directly at Katniss, only inches from her scarlet cheeks. She's staring at it, wide eyed. She licks her lips, and my dick twitches.

 

I'm gonna cum.  

 

Katniss reaches for my hand again and helps me into the tub. It isn't a smooth or elegant process, the lack of sensation in my prosthetic makes slippery surfaces a challenge but I manage, with her assistance, to get settled in the warm water. She shifts backwards, sliding between my thighs, leaning back against my chest. My cock is pressed firmly against her ass, cradled in the cleft at the base of her spine. I can't stop myself from bucking against her, just a bit. Her answering moan spurs me to do it again and I'm rewarded with a little wiggle of her hips.

 

Fuck, she's so impossibly sexy.

 

She pries my fingers from where they're gripping the tub edge like a lifeline and places my hands on her breasts. It's all the encouragement I need. I alternate between palming the slippery mounds and rolling her nipples between my fingers. Her head lolls back against my shoulder and she whimpers my name.

 

The long column of her elegant neck tempts me and I don't resist, laving the salty sweet skin like a starving man.

 

My cock is absolutely throbbing, rubbing slickly against her firm ass as I continuing thrusting, her breathy little moans everytime I do make my toes curl. She reaches a hand back blindly to wrap in my hair, arching as she does. I've never seen anything more erotic than Katniss, naked and glistening, arched in my arms, eyes closed in bliss.

 

And then like a lightning bolt the realization hits me. She planned this. She wanted me to find her, to touch her, to pleasure her.  My shy, pure Katniss. She’s not very good at expressing her needs in words, but she’s showing me now; she wants me. She wants us.

 

A rush of love overpowers me. I want to make her feel good. I need to make her feel good.

 

She gasps as I wrap my arm around her thigh, lifting her leg up to balance on the edge of the bathtub. A line of bubbles parades along her lean calf and up her thigh, disappearing into the water.  Before she can even try to drop her leg my hand finds her centre, cupping her. “Peeta,” she squeaks, but not in protest, and her hips chase my hand.

 

The water doesn't disguise her silky arousal, coating my fingers as I tease her. She writhes and squirms and pants, water spilling over the tub edge. I bring her to the brink, then pull back, over and over. Her moans turn into whines, and finally she finds her words.

 

"Please, Peeta, please," she begs and I nearly blow my load. I stop teasing and switch to rubbing her clit with the firm circles I know will push her over the edge. She twists to kiss me fiercely, grunting against my lips when the new angle lets me bury two fingers deep inside her.

 

As limited as her verbal communications can be, she's incredible at showing me how she's feeling. Now as she squirms and bucks and chants my name in breathless pants against my lips her pleasure is clearly displayed, her passion is mine to enjoy.

 

My lips caress the shell of her ear as I murmur encouragements in her ear, telling her how beautiful she is, how sexy, how much I want her, even as my fingers continue their relentless pace.

 

When I whisper _I love you,_ she shatters, and so do I, in a way. Her release is physical, mine is something different; my heart swells with pride, and elation. She pulses and quakes, arching erotically, my name leaving her lips as a drawn out whine. When she calms, her eyes, heavy-lidded and glowing, hold mine. Those full lips quirk up in a smile  as she lays in my arms, completely sated.

 

That she can trust me like this, that she can love me despite everything, it's more than I ever dreamed possible. I wish I could stay in this moment forever, but she's starting to shiver in the rapidly cooling water.

 

I help her out of the tub, wrap her in a fluffy Capitol towel and take my time drying her gently, more caresses than utility. And she lets me, almost purring in contentment. This isn't a side of Katniss I get to see very often, and I'm enjoying it.

 

She even lets me carry her back to our bedroom, nuzzling my neck. I set her on our bed, kissing her softly as I do. She's tired; I'll let her rest while I make us both some dinner. But she shakes her head at me as I pull back, as if she's read my thoughts.

 

“C’mere,” she drawls lazily, pulling the corner of the sheet back in invitation. “Join me.” I chuckle, hearing those words again, but climb in. Her eyes glitter mischievously; she presses me back into the pillows and hovers over me. “It's your turn now.”  And as her body slides sensuously down mine, leaving wet kisses in her wake, I can only grip the bedsheets tightly and wait to see what else she has in store for us tonight.

  
  
  



	4. Ours to Discover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ours to Discover, an Everlark ficlet. Canon compliant, post-mockingjay. Rated explicit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written for @otrascosasseries on Tumblr, she's so supportive and so quick to dole out compliments and make stunning banners for the fandom. This wee bit of fluffy smutty canon Everlark is a very tiny thanks to her!

I can’t take my eyes off her, can barely even blink. She's on her hands and knees, rocking back and forth and moaning, a long stream of primal sounds fall from her pursed pink lips, punctuated by grunts and curses.  

 

My hands shake and I'm breathing hard, sweating profusely, but I notice that somehow her hair stays perfectly coiled on top of her head.

 

When the desperate keening begins I know Katniss won’t last much longer. We’ve been at this nearly 10 minutes already, I don’t think she’s ever held out so long before. A moment later I’m proven right.

 

“Dammit, Peeta,” she groans, pushing herself up awkwardly, “I can’t take anymore of this.” She stomps away and I blow out a forceful breath, wiping my damp palms on my trousers and reaching for the remote to pause the action onscreen. The shrieking cuts off abruptly and the image freezes on the face of a painted Capitol woman, mouth wide in a now silent scream. I take a few moments to calm my breathing and clear my head before following her.

 

She’s at the kitchen sink, hands braced against the counter, staring out the window over the dark yard. Tension radiates from her in waves. I move behind her and wrap my arms around her.  She leans into me, rubbing her head against my shoulder like a cat. She’s not angry, that’s a good sign. I press a kiss to her temple and murmur into her hair. “I’m sorry, Katniss.”

 

“You don’t need the videos, Peeta,” she says, and I nod. It’s the same argument we’ve had every week since Dr. Aurelius started sending them. “They’re not even realistic,” she huffs and I sigh.

 

“They’re the best I can do,” I counter. “I can’t risk losing myself when it happens.” Though I haven’t had a violent episode since the end of the war I do still occasionally have flashbacks, a lingering side effect of the highjacking I suffered at the hands of President Snow’s scientists in the Capitol. Stress and exhaustion make them harder to fight off, and I know this is going to be one of the most stressful occasions of my life, despite how excited I am.

 

“Oh, Peeta,” she sighs and the frustration is clear in her voice. “That won’t happen, you’re going to be amazing.” She turns in my arms then and I have to take a half step backwards to make room for her belly.

 

It’s taken five, ten, fifteen years to get here. When we first returned to District 12 after the war we were both so broken, all of our efforts went into healing: ourselves and, eventually, each other. But as the years passed, and as Panem thrived in peace, the idea of bringing a child into the world started to seem a little less scary. We watched our friends’ children grow and bloom, saw the joy those little people brought to their families.

 

I started contemplating the idea of a child of our own a few years ago, but I never pushed Katniss.  I knew she’d be an amazing mother, anyone who’d ever seen her with Prim would have known that, but I’ve also seen her with the kids in the district. She’s quick to sneak them a cookie when she’s at the bakery, even quicker to teach them about the wildflowers that fill their meadow playground. But I knew she had to come to that realization herself.  

 

When she finally told me she was ready it was one of the greatest moments of my life, only behind our toasting... and of course the day she told me we were finally expecting.

 

The pregnancy hasn't been easy on either of us. Katniss has nightmares, she’s had nightmares since the Games, even before that, and they’ve never completely gone away, but for a long time they were better. Over the past few months however they’ve come back with a vengeance.

 

And for me, a new addition to the terrors I see when I sleep is a horrible recurring nightmare of attacking Katniss as she’s giving birth, killing her as our baby slips into the world, still and silent.

 

Those are the mornings I can’t even look at Katniss, for fear she’ll be able to see what my dream-self has done. See the evil that lurks, still, in my mind.

 

Dr Aurelius is semi-retired these days, but he’s the first person I called after the new nightmares began. A few years ago we transitioned my care to another doctor, Dr Aubry, but since he and I usually spend our once monthly calls talking about sports, I figured it’d be better for my mental stability to seek Dr Aurelius’s help again.

 

Dr Aurelius actually agrees with my wife that I’m overreacting, that once the time comes I’ll be just fine, but I refuse to leave anything to chance. So we’ve been working on an immersion therapy of sorts - each week he sends me a tape of the latest episode of _A Capitol Baby Story._   The idea being that if I watch childbirth over and over I’ll become desensitized to it, to the hospital beds and screaming and blood that are often triggers.

 

I’m not sure how well it’s working.

 

Oh I haven’t dissociated watching any of the tapes, haven’t even had to fight off a flashback. The videos are graphic, and they make me pretty queasy, but I’m able to stay in the moment.

 

Katniss, on the other hand, hates them. I desperately want her by my side while I watch but she barely makes it through the opening credits before she's running away.

 

Okay, running might be a stretch. At 34 weeks pregnant she doesn't run anymore. Or climb trees. Or hunt. I'm glad that's not something we had to fight about, instead the midwife was the one who told Katniss a couple of months ago that she was going to need to retire that for awhile.

 

That went over about as well as you might imagine. But to her credit she listened.

 

Katniss sighs and rests her cheek against my chest as I hold her. "It won't be like in the videos, Peeta. We'll be here, in our home, just you and me and Milena." Milena is the midwife, a really wonderful woman who came to Twelve years ago, from Seven I think. She has been so good at soothing Katniss through this whole process.

 

"Thom too," I remind her. That's another part of my plan to ensure her safety. Thom, who over the past 15 years has become one of my closest friends, will be here. If anything happens, if I snap or lose myself, he's promised to incapacitate me. I feel her nod against my chest.

 

It's nearly the time we usually turn in, I have a full complement of staff at the bakery but I still like to open. Baking in the predawn is practically in my blood. So we usually are in bed early. I lead Katniss up to our room, stopping only to switch off the television. Seeing that face on the screen staring at me in the early morning hours would probably end poorly.

 

I head right for the shower, and am in and out quickly, but when I walk back into our bedroom with a towel slung around my hips Katniss isn’t in bed. She’s standing in front of the full length mirror by our closet. She’s wearing the short silk robe I gave her for her birthday last year and a pair of panties. The robe is open, framing her breasts and the swell of her belly where our child rests.

 

She’s the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen.

 

I’ve always thought Katniss is beautiful; she has an elegance and a luminosity that attracts people. But pregnant, she is just so incredibly sexy. She’s gained about 20 pounds so far, and while the majority of it is in the enormous bump of her stomach, the rest of her body has filled out a little too. Her hips are curvier, her thighs and ass rounder, and her breasts... as if I wasn’t already completely hard.

 

She sees me in the mirror and turns to face me, the glint of mischief in those mercury eyes is unmistakable.

 

Pregnancy hormones have made her tired and moody and sick in turn, but for the past 2 months those same hormones have made her insatiable.

 

I’m not complaining.

 

I release my grip on the towel, which slips to pool around my feet, and scoop Katniss up in my arms, bridal style. Though it’s only a dozen steps to the bed I have to stop twice; the feeling of her nearly naked body pressed against mine, her lips and tongue painting sonnets onto my throat, I can barely control myself. I set her on the edge of the bed and get rid of those panties, then bury my face between her thighs.

 

She tastes phenomenal.  

 

She’s already so wet, swollen and almost sticky, and her keening as I torment her clit with my tongue and teeth is like music, so much different than the noises in those stupid Capitol videos.  

 

Katniss is real.

 

She comes with a shout even before I have a chance to press my fingers into her waiting heat, but I keep stroking her with my tongue as she comes down from her high, lapping up her sweet tangy arousal. Only when she practically melts into the mattress do I slide up to join her, shifting us to lie side by side, spooned as if for sleep.

 

But we’re not going to sleep just yet.

 

I pull her leg up over my hip as she wiggles her bare ass against my throbbing cock then finally, finally I slide into her.  She’s so hot and tight, and in this position she clamps around me like a vise.

 

I’m not going to last.

 

I try to go slowly but she just feels so good. My pace quickens and grows erratic far too soon.  The arm wrapped around her drifts lower, to tease her swollen clit, and after only a few passes she shatters. The feeling of her pulsing around me sends me over the brink and I grunt and curse as I empty myself into her.

 

She’s asleep before I can even pull the sheets over us.

 

~~~

 

I’ve given up on the videos entirely, Dr Aurelius sent me picture books on the last train. They’re not much better, but at least Katniss will look at them, though the nudity bothers her. 33 years old and still there’s a purity to Katniss that’s a unique contrast to the fierce huntress she shows the rest of the world.

 

She's 37 weeks pregnant now, and so completely done with the whole experience. Her back hurts, her ankles are swollen, she can't get comfortable enough to sleep longer than an hour or two at a time, and even that rest is plagued by nightmares. She's sick of being pregnant but terrified of giving birth. I can't help feeling that the videos and picture books are feeding her fear.

 

Katniss alternates between snapping at me and then apologizing almost tearfully. I hate her misery. I hate feeling like it's my fault. I hate that I can't make it better for her. I bake her cheese buns and rub her sore feet. I tell her I love her every chance I get. But I can't take her place.

 

And we still have three weeks left. Or longer, if the books are to be believed. When we read that most first time pregnancies go a week or two overdue she hid in our closet for over an hour.

 

I too am looking forward to the pregnancy being over, but only because I'm so anxious to meet our little one. I've filled half a sketchbook with baby cheeks and gummy smiles, sharp grey eyes and wisps of dark hair. I'm not so secretly hoping it's a girl. I'll love this baby with my whole heart regardless of the gender (I'm not my mother, after all), but a tiny replica of my wife? How could I resist that?

 

But I'm also trying to enjoy every second of the pregnancy too. My hands cup Katniss's belly at every opportunity, and feeling the life we've created together squirming against my palms is the absolute definition of awe. Katniss is almost always accommodating of my inability to keep my hands off her. Almost.

 

She's crankier than usual tonight, pacing our home like a caged lynx. I imagine it's the combination of a few bad nights in a row and the cold fall rains that have pelted the district for three straight days, turning the path to town into a treacherously slippery mudslide. Katniss hasn't been further than the porch in days.

 

I make a snap decision to stay home from the bakery tomorrow. A quick call to my right hand man arranges it. It'll be too muddy to do much, even if the rain lets up, but hopefully I can distract her, keep her mind off things for awhile.

 

I tell her as we're preparing for bed and her silver eyes shine. "Really?" she says, a half smile tugging at her lips. "You'd willingly spend a whole day stuck in the house with a cranky bear?" And I laugh; there's my Katniss, my sassy, vibrant, incredible wife. She laughs too. "You really don't know what you're in for." But she's smiling.

 

The uptick in her mood remains once we've climbed into bed together. Playful kisses grow heated quickly. We don't fit together the way we used to, which makes me smile against her lips. Her frustration makes me smile even more.

 

But my smile falls away when she abruptly straddles me, tossing the thin nightgown she'd worn to bed onto the floor. Her hips move in an erotic dance, grinding against me sensually. Even through her panties and my shorts I can feel how wet she is. Her heavy breasts sway and her eyes close in bliss. She's breathtaking. My cock throbs, the prickle in my balls increasing with every swivel of her hips until I'm panting, begging. "Please," I moan. "Please Katniss. I want to be inside you."

 

She moves with a speed and grace completely at odds with her condition. Her panties are mostly off, dangling from one ankle before I can even help. She pushes my shorts down only far enough to free my cock, then plunges down on me in one hot motion. It's such a turn on that she wants me too much to even wait for me to undress fully.

 

It feels so good, my eyes almost cross from the intensity of her velvet walls gripping me tight. Then she's riding me hard, stealing my breath, reducing me to a moaning, cursing mess.

 

My hands grip her hips, trying to slow her, to prevent myself from falling over the edge too quickly but she's relentless. "Katniss," I gasp. "I'm gonna come."  

 

She shoots me the most wicked look and stops abruptly. I groan as the peak I was chasing slides back a little, but she just smirks. When she senses I've calmed a bit she starts to rhythmically clench her walls around my dick. A string of curse words fall from my lips and she laughs, sweetly and musically. This woman will be the death of me.

 

She starts to move again, but more slowly, sensually. Her hands roam my body as she rocks with me, and her eyes stay fixed with mine. The love I see in their silver depths is the most powerful aphrodisiac.

 

I pull her down to kiss her, it's awkward with the firm swell of her belly between us, but worth it to taste her lips, swallow her soft moans.

 

We keep our pace slow, touching and stroking and loving until neither of us can take it anymore. My hands grip her hips hard as I thrust up and she bears down, over and over. She wails her release into the darkness and I follow with a shout so loud the whole village likely heard. Not that I care in the least.

 

She curls into my arms with a contented sigh, and I'm asleep in minutes.

 

\---

 

I'd intended on sleeping in, waking slowly with my beautiful wife, maybe making love again before feeding her a huge breakfast, then pampering her all day, as much as she'll allow. But when my eyes spring open it's still night, though a faint glow comes from behind me. I can't suppress the quiet groan of disappointment.

 

“Shhh, go back to sleep Peeta.”  Katniss's voice, wide awake. I roll over to find her sitting up against the headboard, her bedside lamp on, a notepad in one hand.  

 

“What's wrong?” I'm rapidly waking up, usually she wakes me when she's had a nightmare, so it must be discomfort that has her wide awake. As my eyes focus I can see I'm right; her brow is pinched. “Is it your back again?”  She shakes her head, and blows out a noisy breath. There's something really wrong. I sit up, leaning in to grasp her arms. “Katniss?”

 

“I think I'm in labour.” I understand the words, but it takes several long moments before I figure out their meaning. And when I do I leap off the bed.

 

My prosthetic snags and I barely stop myself from falling face first to the floor, catching myself awkwardly, and then I'm sprinting to the dresser. She calls my name, first quietly, then with growing exasperation.

 

“Peeta!” I stop, whirling to face her, heart hammering, wearing a shirt and socks but nothing else. Her eyes crinkle in amusement. “Come here,” she says, reaching a hand to where I stand shaking like a leaf. But she's calm, and it soothes me. I sit beside her, wide eyed and she takes my hand.

 

“Remember what the books said,” she reminds me softly. “Labour takes a long time. And I'm not even certain it's real yet.” She hands me the notepad she'd been clutching, a list of numbers scrawled on it. No, not numbers, times. 1:47. 2:10. 2:31… and on until 4:25, just five minutes ago. I guess that's what woke me. The most recent times are about fifteen minutes apart.

 

“Why didn't you wake me, Love?” I hate that she's been suffering while I've been snoring away, completely oblivious.

 

“I wasn't sure what was going on. I'm still not,” she admits. “But I think they're getting stronger.”

 

“What can I do?” All of those tapes, the books, the talks with the midwife, all of it has flown out of my head completely. Katniss merely smiles.

 

“Just hold me,” she says.

 

By the time the sun rises it's pretty clear that this is it. I make her a light breakfast, and we chat. It's not much different than a normal Sunday… except it's Thursday, and every ten minutes or so Katniss has to stop and clutch the table, gritting her teeth and breathing hard for a minute.

 

I call Milena at 8:00 and describe the situation, she promises to be by within the hour.

 

When she arrives she helps my wife to the bedroom, examining her and confirming what we already knew: we’re going to be parents. Today. (Or maybe early tomorrow she admits, which makes Katniss snarl.)

 

Milena puts a waterproof sheet on our bed and gathers the towels and blankets and other supplies she'll need. Her calm efficiency puts me at ease. Since the beginning, Katniss has been insistent that our baby will be born here, at home, like all of our ancestors were. No health centre. No hospital. So it's reassuring to have Milena here. I'd be lost otherwise.

 

She encourages us to take a nap while we still can, Katniss has been awake for hours already and is exhausted, and the real work is still ahead of her.

 

\---

 

In the end they were all right: it was nothing like the videos.

 

Thom arrived around dinner time, bearing a casserole his wife prepared, some meat and cheese and noodle dish that no one ate.

 

Katniss laboured all day and deep into the night, pacing when she could, gripping my hand tightly with each contraction. Unlike the shrieking of the videos, Katniss was, for the most part, silent. Low moans, quiet grunts and some tears, but no screaming, no wailing. In fact the only crack in her brave façade came while she was pushing. “I can't,” is all she said, tears streaming down her cheeks. I was sitting behind her, supporting her weight, murmuring encouragement in her ear.

 

“Yes you can. You're almost there, you're so incredible, Katniss.” I meant every word.

 

The first fingers of dawn were just grazing the sill of our open window when our baby came into the world, not still and silent like my nightmares, but squawking and flailing in righteous indignation.

 

\---

 

We have a daughter.

 

She's tiny and perfect; ten fingers, ten toes and a shock of dark hair. I'm already in love with her.

 

We’ve named her Willow.

 

Katniss is a natural. I knew she would be. I'm a little bit of a wreck myself. Willow is so small, so helpless, so completely dependent on us. I'm humbled and awed to be entrusted with the care of this tiny, precious creature who fits snugly in my two hands.

 

We haven't left our room since she was born, hours ago. Milena checked over the baby, took care of Katniss and discretely cleaned up, then brought us up a light meal before leaving. Thom slipped away soon after the birth, to give us our privacy, never having had to intervene at all. Just like Katniss predicted, I kept myself together the entire time. I'm not even sure if I thanked Thom for being here, I haven't been able to tear my eyes away from my family.

 

My family.

 

Katniss and I take turns holding Willow, admiring her, thanking each other for her, laughing and crying. Every time I look at my daughter lying contentedly in the arms of the love of my life I'm filled with a gratitude so huge it threatens to overwhelm me.

 

I am truly happy. Life is good again, in spite of our losses. The future is ours to discover, together.

 

Always.

  
  
  
  
  
  



	5. Deadpool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: meeting at a masquerade ball au - Everlark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From a Tumblr prompt. This fic *very slightly* references the movie 'Deadpool', it's not necessary to have seen the movie to understand the fic, nor will the fic spoil any plot points of the movie... but there are a couple of movie gags in here that you'll miss if you haven't experienced the movie :)

She clattered into the ballroom on heels higher than she usually wore. The three drinks she'd had at home before the cab arrived to bring her to this little slice of hell contributed to a tread much noisier than typical for her. Stopping just inside the grand entryway she scowled at the sight before her.

 

Katniss Everdeen hated parties.

 

She honestly thought she would be allowed to skip this one; after all, it had only been 3 weeks since her entire life had come crashing down. Surely she was entitled to at least a month of Netflix and ice cream in her stained sweats?

 

Madge, her friend since high school, didn't agree. "You promised, Everdeen," she whined into the phone, and Katniss was powerless to resist.

 

The annual Undersee costume ball for children's charities was a big deal in Panem. Madge’s father had started the tradition years ago, and Madge took over hosting when she got married last year.

 

So there Katniss was, in what barely passed for a costume, cobbled together at the last minute. Fishnet stockings, heels and a ridiculously short leather skirt borrowed from Jo’s closet, a shimmery black sleeveless blouse, and a pair of cat ears leftover from Hallowe’en. A fabric scrap for a tail and a black mask and voila, she was a cat. Or possibly a feline hooker.

 

The ballroom of an opulent downtown hotel was packed with people; the cacophony of chatter and laughter and music threatening to send her running before she’d even truly made an appearance. But she’d dragged herself here, so she was at least going to track down Madge before she bolted for the quiet emptiness of Jo’s apartment.

 

It proved more difficult than she thought, and after a few minutes of aimless wandering her feet were already sore. The bar in the corner beckoned.

 

Only one stool was occupied, its inhabitant’s broad back facing her.  She slid onto the stool next to him, trying not to drool at the way the red and black spandex of his costume clung to his broad shoulders.

 

Darius, another of Madge’s friends, was tending bar, his sheriff costume and bandana doing little to obscure his identity.  She couldn’t see his smile, but she knew it was there as his eyes crinkled in recognition. “A gin and tonic, Kat… woman?” he asked, and she chuckled.

 

“Please,” she said. “And a blowjob for Deadpool here.” The occupant of the other stool turned his red-hooded head to her briefly, then went back to peeling the label from a bottle of beer.

 

Darius hooted, “You’re the first one to recognize that costume, all of the other girls have been calling him ‘Spidey’.” She visibly shuddered, but said nothing, focussing her attention on the G&T he set in front of her, downing most of it before he returned with the whipped cream-mounded shot glass.

 

Setting it in front of her, Darius gestured to the silent member of their little threesome. “Seems like you’re going to have to enjoy this blowjob instead of ‘Pool there, seeing as how his costume has no mouth hole.” She glanced over, and sure enough the mask was mouthless, with white mesh obscuring his eyes as well. Very authentic, but she wondered how he was drinking the beer that sat mostly empty in front of him.

 

“Seems like it,” she murmured.  In her younger years she might have climbed up on the bar to take the shot without using her hands, but since this was Madge’s charity ball she wasn’t about to cause a scene. Instead she sipped the sweet mixture of Bailey’s, Kahlua and Amaretto slowly, using her tongue to swipe the whipped cream remnants from the rim. A little choked noise came from her left, and she realized that Deadpool was watching her.  He looked away quickly, returning to his apparently fascinating beer label, and her cheeks flamed. She sat in stony silence until Darius dropped off another drink for each of them.

 

“So what’s your story?” Katniss asked, elbowing the costumed man beside her. He flinched, she could see the muscles of his bicep ripple beneath the skin tight fabric. His head turned towards her again, but with obvious reluctance. “Rough childhood?”  He dropped his head again, shaking it slightly, not in response but in dismissal. But she wasn’t deterred; she’d seen the movie, she knew how this was supposed to go down.

 

“Me too,” she said, as if he’d answered affirmatively. “My parents died when I was little, and I was raised by an uncle and aunt. I lived in a cupboard under their stairs.” He had stiffened at her words, but his shoulders relaxed as she finished. “No wait,” she murmured, knocking back most of her drink. “That’s Harry Potter. Right, so I watched my parents get murdered and was raised by a butler in stately Wayne manor.”

 

That elicited a muffled chuckle from the man beside her, though he continued to look down. But it spurred Katniss on. “It’s true.  And then my home planet was blown up by a Sith lord while I watched. Then I got pinned by a boulder and had to cut off my own arm to escape!” She was slurring a bit, but the hooded stranger was at least looking in her direction, however silent he remained. She could see the way the spandex caressing his strong jaw stretched, as if he was smiling, just slightly. Her own smirk faltered as she stared at the white mesh where she knew his eyes were. “I lost my arm, my home, my family…” she trailed off as her joking came too close to the truth.

 

“I lost the man I loved more than life,” she whispered, and the stranger didn’t look away. “I had the most wonderful life, I had everything, and I threw it all away.” A single tear snaked  from under her mask, pooling in the corner of her mouth, grey-tinged from her mascara.

 

“Fuck, stop Katniss,” the man beside her groaned, his voice muffled by fabric but still recognizable. He pulled off the hood, revealing sweat-soaked curls plastered to his head, and anguished blue eyes, red-rimmed and smudged with violet. Eyes that had haunted her every waking moment. Eyes that had filled her dreams and nightmares.  Eyes that looked even more tortured now than they had when she’d run out of their apartment three weeks ago.

 

“I’m sorry, Peeta” she whimpered, and it was clear she was apologizing for more than the story. He sighed, running his hand through his matted curls, making them stand on end in a way that made her stomach clench. How she missed running her fingers through those curls!

 

He stood suddenly and her heart sank. Of course he was going to walk away, he should walk away, after how she treated him. Instead, he pulled her off the stool, marching her through the ballroom and out the double doors, down the hotel corridor and into another, quieter room.

 

When they were face to face he dropped her hand and reached to slide her mask up, resting it against her cat ears, exposing her damp eyes to his troubled gaze. The silence stretched between them, pregnant with things unsaid. He broke first.

 

“Why?” It was less a question than an admission of defeat.

 

She fidgeted, looking everywhere but at the man before her. “Madge made me come,” she started, but he cut her off.

 

“That’s not what I’m asking, Katniss,” he said, frustration painting his words. “And you know it.”  

 

She nodded. “I’m sorry,” she repeated, and his face fell further.

 

“Just tell me why, Katniss. Please.” His voice cracked and finally, finally she met his eyes.

 

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she admitted in a voice too small to be her own.

 

“You ran away!” He started to pace, pulling at his curls again.  She was powerless to look away.  “You left me, you haven’t answered my calls in three weeks!  Three weeks! If it wasn’t for Jo I wouldn’t even know if you were alive or not!”

 

“I’m sorry, okay! I’m sorry.”

 

He stopped and turned to look at her, the energy that had fueled his frenzied pacing dissipating all at once, water through a sieve.

 

“Just tell me why,” he begged. “I thought… I thought we wanted the same things.” Her heart clenched hard.

 

“We did,” she affirmed, choking back a little sob. “I panicked.”

 

“I asked you to marry me,” his voice was high and tight, incredulous, “and you ran away.  You didn’t even say no, or not yet, or, fuck, anything. You just bolted! Three weeks, Katniss, I’ve been waiting for three weeks to ask you…”  He trailed off, and a shudder ran through him, his head falling forward. The small room was filled with his gasping breaths as he struggled to calm himself.

 

Tears rolled down her face as she watched him, the man she’d loved since she was just a girl. The man who was so patient with her fears and intimacy issues. The man she’d always envisioned _forever_ with. The man she’d broken. She could live a hundred lifetimes and never deserve him.

 

“I wanted to ask you how to fix us.” It was such a quiet admission, more a breath than a whisper, but her head shot up when she heard him.

 

“You… you want to fix us?” A flutter in her chest. Hope, maybe. Was it possible?

 

“Is there still an ‘us’, Katniss?”

 

“I want there to be.” Her grey eyes met his blue, both wild, anguished, but both with a newfound optimism so lacking in the previous weeks. Weeks of emptiness, of aching loneliness.

 

She didn't know who moved first, maybe it was simple magnetism that pulled them together, lips meeting in a clash of teeth and tears. And underneath all that was the steadiness he brought to everything, the calm, the knowledge that things would be good again, in spite of everything. And only he could give her that.

 

She poured her heart into their kiss, murmuring apologies each time they broke apart for air. His own apologies joined hers; when he begged her forgiveness for pushing too fast she nearly broke again. “No, no,” she whimpered, pressing the words against his lips. “You've never rushed me. Peeta. You've never, ever pushed. You were so perfect. When you asked me, it was perfect, it was exactly right. And… and I can't believe I ruined it.”

 

“I don't care about that, Katniss. I just want you. Any way I can have you.” He was so earnest. Always so earnest. One of so many things she loved about him.

 

“I want to go home,” she said plaintively. He nodded sadly, clearly not understanding, and she nearly lost her nerve. “I want to go home with you. To our home. Please, Peeta?” It was barely a whisper but his face lit up like the sun.

 

“Yes, please, please come home, Katniss. Oh God,” he laughed, a wet, almost pained sound, and then he was kissing her again, a thorough claiming, unrestrained, agonizing in its relief.

 

“I wanted to come back, even before I made it to the elevators,” she whimpered as he clutched her tightly to his chest, huge hand cradling her head. “I picked up the phone a hundred times. I… I’m sorry, Peeta.”

 

“No more,” he murmured, pressing wet kisses in her dishevelled hair, cat ears and mask lost somewhere along the way. “It’s in the past. We’re going to be okay now. I love you.” He grasped her more tightly, as if to prevent her from ever running again.

 

She couldn’t go back to the party, not smudged and bedraggled as she was, and Peeta didn’t seem to have any desire to return either. He was still clutching her tightly as they waited for the valet to bring around the car. She looked up at him, after everything she’d put him through he was still here.  “Peeta?” Her voice was so timid.  “If… if you still want…” His brows furrowed. She bit her lip hard and tried again. “I want to, if you still do.”

 

A slow smile spread across his face, but he wasn’t letting her off the hook that easily. “If I want what, Katniss?” His voice had lost the shattered timbre, and was husky, almost playful. Nearly normal again.

 

“Marry me?”

 

He laughed, loud, boisterous, echoing off the cement pillars of the hotel entry as he swung her around in a circle. Then he was sliding a ring, _the ring_ , onto her finger, hardly getting it past the first knuckle before he was covering her giggling face with kisses.

 

It was only after they were in the car, driving back home - home, for the first time in three weeks, that she realized: his super suit was completely pocketless.

 

“Peeta? Where were you hiding that ring?”


	6. "Get over here now and bring a tarp"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Modern AU Everlark new neighbours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From a Tumblr prompt: #27 “Get over here now and bring a tarp.” My first real attempt at drabbling, and at 430 words it's not really a drabble... but it's shorter than my typical long winded diatribes... so I'll call that a win :)

“Get over here now and bring a tarp!” Katniss jolted awake; the voice was almost directly under her apartment window, loud and agitated. It took her a few moments to gain her bearings, she was in bed, it was ass o’clock on Saturday morning, and the sun wasn’t even up?

No, she realized, it wasn’t actually that early, almost 9. It was dim because the heavy clouds that had been hovering all week were finally releasing their moisture. What a stupid day for the new downstairs neighbour to be moving in. Rain pattered on her window. It would have been soothing, if not for the increasingly frantic pleas from below.

“Finn! Hurry, everything is going to get ruined!” The absolute agony in the stranger’s voice prompted her to crawl out of bed and peek out the window. He was standing in the rain, trying to shelter a stack of boxes with his body, she could see the stretch and flex of his back muscles through the wet t-shirt that clung to him like skin.

He turned his head suddenly and she ducked behind the curtain, not wanting to get caught. He was looking towards the driveway though, desperation written on his face. His incredibly handsome face. Rain-plastered curls stuck to his forehead and rivulets ran rampant over a jaw carved from marble. Then he dropped his head in surrender, and it nearly broke her heart.

She wasn’t the type to run to a stranger’s aid, wasn’t the type to even introduce herself to a neighbour, but she found herself running down the stairs and out the side door, wearing only her pyjamas and flip flops, the camouflage tarp she used on her hunting trips tucked under her arm.

And as she met the stranger’s bewildered blue eyes, as they shook out the tarp together and huddled under it with his wet boxes, she knew she’d made the right choice. “Thank you for this,” he said shyly, an upward flick of his mesmerizing blue eyes indicating the tarp. “I’m Peeta, by the way.” He shifted, awkwardly supporting the tarp with one hand and his head in order to extend his other hand to her.

“Katniss,” she laughed, water pouring down the edge of the tarp as she struggled to grasp his hand. The warmth that radiated from his touch, the tingles in her arm, the way his pupils dilated… there could be something special there, she thought. She couldn’t wait to find out. “Welcome to the neighbourhood, Peeta,” she murmured, and he smiled at her as they waited out the storm together.


	7. “In my defence, I thought this would go a lot more smoothly.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a Tumblr meme, where the sentence you're assigned has to be the first sentence of your drabble. #7 - “In my defence, I thought this would go a lot more smoothly.”

**#7 -  “In my defence, I thought this would go a lot more smoothly.”**

* * *

“In my defence, I thought this would go a lot more smoothly.” Peeta says it apologetically, but it’s nearly 2 o'clock in the morning, and I’m exhausted and achy and more than a little grumpy.

“Every time, Peeta. You leave things to the last minute every single time.” He looks up sheepishly from the sheaf of papers spread across the floor.  

“I know, and I’m sorry.” It’s hard to be angry with him; those puppy dog eyes, that smile so genuinely sweet with just the right touch of shyness.

Hard, but not impossible.

I groan, snatching one of the papers at random. It looks like hieroglyphics, and while there are no fewer than 14 different Scandinavian translations printed in 2 point font, there doesn’t appear to be a single word of English.

“Hey,” he protests. “I had those in order!” But I’m not really paying attention.

“It’ll go quicker if we work together,” I grumble, dumping a baggy of bolts on the floor. They skitter across the hardwood.  Peeta lets out a high-pitched whine of protest.

“Do you know how hard it is to get replacement parts if we lose one?” He crawls across the floor, recapturing the jetsam and flotsam, carefully counting each piece before returning them to the tiny ziplock bag. And though I’m pissed, it’s hard not to enjoy the sight of his ass wiggling in front of me as he reaches for an errant bolt.

“It’s late, Peeta,” I start, but he cuts me off.

“I can do this, just… just give me a little more time.” A fresh flare of anger ignites deep in my gut.

“Dammit, Peeta, there’s hours more work here, what the hell were you even thinking starting so late?” He bristles at my tone, but then sighs and drops his head into his hands, all of the fight leaving him.

“It’s our first night officially living together,” he mumbles. “I just wanted it to be perfect for you.”

He’s slumped amidst the stacks of Ikea bed frame parts, surrounded by packing boxes, looking lost and overwhelmed and just so sad. And like the grinch, I swear my heart swells to three times its size.

“Peeta,” I breathe, cupping his chin in my hand and coaxing him to look at me. “It’s already perfect. We’re together, that’s everything I want.” He takes a deep breath, as if to begin a long argument, but I stop his lips with a kiss.

He moans, but before he can deepen the kiss I pull away, and standing I cross the room to where our brand new mattress leans against the wall, still encased in plastic wrap. I let it fall flat with a flump and a whoosh of air that scatters the assembly instructions. Peeta laughs.  

My duvet is folded on top of a box, I spread it sloppily across the mattress and lie on top of it in a hopelessly un-seductive pose. Peeta doesn’t seem to mind. And though the plastic-wrapped mattress crinkles under our writhing bodies and crackles with each of Peeta’s deep thrusts, our first official night together is perfect.


	8. "I know you're afraid but we can't stay in this closet forever."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little canon-compliant post MJ drabble, a first sentence Tumblr ask from Burkygirl

"I know you're afraid but we can't stay in this closet forever." She’s motionless, knees drawn up tight against her chest, staring vacantly into her lap. A slight shake of her head is the only indication that she’s heard me. “Sweetheart,” I breathe, reaching over to cup her chin, tipping her face up.

 

She closes her eyes tightly; jet black lashes brush across her cheeks, flushed and tear streaked. My heart breaks for her. It’s been awhile since the last time I found her hiding in a closet, but it’s been a rough few months and I know she’s overwhelmed. “Tell me what I can do to make it better?” I know she won’t answer though. She can be so stubborn.

 

She wrenches her face away from my hand, looking down again, popping the end of her glossy black braid into her mouth. It’s a nervous habit, I know. Finally she sighs. “Don’t wanna go,” she mumbles. The scowl that paints her face is so familiar I have to bite back a laugh. She must notice, because she drops her head again, her face pressing into her arms.

 

“I know,” I tell her. “But I’ll be right beside you. We’ll go together.”

 

“Togevver?” Her voice is muffled by her sweater and I do laugh, but affectionately. God, I love her so much.

 

“Always.” She lifts her face, and her eyes search mine. Finally she reaches for me, and I scoop her up into my arms. Her head nestles into the crook of my neck, and I can’t resist pressing kisses into her sweet hair.

 

My wife is staring at me with a barely contained smirk, and love in her eyes as I exit the closet. I lean down to kiss her, chastely but with that ever-present heat just below the surface. “She’s so much like you,” I murmur against her lips, indicating the still-pouting little girl in my arms.

 

“I know,” Katniss laughs. “I hope this one takes after you.” Our newborn son is nestled in his sling, snug across his mother’s chest. And for just a few moments we huddle together outside the hall closet, our family of four.

  
“Daddy,” the little one in my arms squawks, wriggling to break the embrace. “Come on,” she sings, her musical voice like a higher pitched version of her mother’s. Her blue eyes sparkle, all of her early pique forgotten. “We go school now, togevver!”  


	9. "Just Once"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Modern AU Drabble in which Katniss and Peeta have very different ideas about dating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From a Tumblr first sentence prompt, "Just once". This is a tiny one, 400 words.

_“Just once I wish we could go on a normal date like normal people.”_

I knew, even at the time, that he hadn’t meant to say it out loud, lying as he was on a gurney, waiting for a doctor to stitch up the leg he’d injured zip-lining with me. As soon as the words left his mouth he’d blanched; his pale skin going almost ghostly. And in a rare rush of compassion, I’d pretended not to have heard it.

But I did hear it.

In fact, I’ve heard it over and over and over in my head in the four weeks since. _“Just once.”_

I honestly though our dates were pretty normal. Or at least normal for us. I mean, Peeta and I have been seeing each other for 8 months now, and he’d never complained before. Don’t normal people go axe throwing on their dates? Isn’t laser tag a typical date night venue?

And, yeah, it’s true that Peeta hasn’t had the best of luck on our dates. There was that concussion he got from an errant foul ball at the Red Sox game our first date.  And the two black eyes when we tried out the trampoline park. And the broken wrist from the parkour lesson. But we’ve had a lot of fun, too. And really, how could I have known he’d bruise that badly from paintballs?

I’m not angry about what he said. But every time he’s asked me out over the past four weeks I’ve heard it in my mind. _“Just once…”_  And so I’ve made excuses to stay in, to watch Netflix.

But not tonight.

Tonight I made reservations at _District 12_ , which the internet assured me was the most romantic restaurant in Panem. I showed up at his apartment in a dress and borrowed heels, ready for a night of fine dining and dancing. The absolute most normal date that Google could suggest.

Peeta was luminous when the maître d’ sat us at an elegantly appointed table, in a quiet corner. His eyes sparkled like sapphires in the candlelight as he reached across the table to take my hands. And I was so captivated by his happiness that I didn’t notice he was too close to the candle until his entire sleeve was engulfed in flames.

Just once I’d like to go on a date that doesn't end in the ER. _Just once_.


	10. You fainted…straight into my arms.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A modern AU drabble-slash-one shot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Tumblr 'first sentence' prompt. This one was 38: “You fainted…straight into my arms. You know, if you wanted my attention you didn't have to go to such extremes.”

“You fainted…straight into my arms. You know, if you wanted my attention you didn’t have to go to such extremes.” His words, deep and sensuous, skate across my lips as he holds me cradled against his chest. The barest hint of a smirk teases his lush lips, and my heart pounds in response.

 

“Aaaand cut!” Peeta drops me so fast I stagger, and by the time I’ve regained my balance he has stormed off the sound stage. I breathe out a frustrated huff and shoot a death glare at Haymitch, the director, who is scowling at me from behind camera 2.

 

“How much more of this shit do I have to put up with, Haymitch?” I growl, but he only rolls his eyes at me.

 

“Two more days of principal photography, Sweetheart. Think you and Loverboy can put aside your mutual disgust long enough to get me out of here on time today?” I grunt in response, crossing my arms tightly across my chest. I’m not the one who marched away. Not this time, anyway. Haymitch shakes his head. “Yeah, me either. Damn, I need a drink,” he mutters under his breath before pinning me with a dark look. “Fine, we’re done for the day. Go home. Come back tomorrow with a better attitude.” He waves at me dismissively, and I stomp away.

 

I hate working with Peeta Mellark.

 

We costarred in a big budget YA franchise 5 years ago; ever since, we’ve avoided working together. I’ve even turned down some pretty prime parts simply to stay off the stage with Peeta. Until now. I couldn’t say no to this role, it’s my friend Johanna’s first production.

 

The paparazzi have been all over us since filming began. Tabloids take delight in reporting about the star-crossed actors who have such incredible chemistry on screen but who can barely tolerate each other off.

 

I rip the short blond wig I’ve been wearing for this role off my head and toss it on the craft services table. Someone will find it. My own black hair is braided and tightly pinned to my head, I pull it down furiously, leaving a trail of clips in my wake.

 

My trailer is the last one on the lot, it’s dark inside, quiet. I’ve barely closed the door behind me when I find myself pressed roughly against it. “Took you long enough, Everdeen,” he growls in my ear moments before his lips are crushing mine. I want to say something snarky in return but his tongue steals the words right out of my mouth. “I’m so fucking hard for you, Katniss,” he groans when we break apart for air, thrusting against me in demonstration. “They’re going to have to CGI my hard on out of that scene.”

 

My laugh turns into a gasp as his hands cup my ass and he hoists me into his arms.

 

The bed is only steps away but it feels like an eternity. We tear at each other’s clothing; Cinna will have a fit if we’ve damaged the costumes but I can’t find it in me to care. I need him, right now. I can’t wait.  

 

He sets a relentless pace, punishing, and I’m so wound up that I come within minutes, wailing my release and relief into his shoulder. Only then does he slow, only then does my sweet Peeta take over.

 

We make love, slowly, filling the room with gasps and sighs, with pleas and praise. And after, we lay curled together in my hard trailer bed, not an inch of space between us. “I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up,” he whispers into my hair, and I can hear the exhaustion in his voice.

 

“Just a couple more days,” I remind him, but he shakes his head.

 

“Not this shoot. All of it.” He sighs. “I’m so tired, Katniss. I don’t want to hide anymore.”

 

I shift in the bed to meet his eyes, circled with smudged stage makeup but still the most incredible blue I’ve ever seen. Eyes I fell in love with when we were just teenagers, thrust into the spotlight together. “What are you saying?” I whisper.

 

We’ve spent 5 years hiding our relationship, five years trying to carve out some semblance of privacy. Carefully feeding stories to the gossip mags, being photographed in public with other people but never together. Five years of sneaking around. He brushes my matted hair back from my face and smiles; but it’s a sad, pained smile, and my heart hurts.

 

“I’m sick of reading about you and Gale buying a house together, and I don’t want to know which production assistant is my girl of the week,” he admits. “I don’t want to pretend.” We fall silent, thinking about what he’s said, what it would mean to open the curtains, let the rest of the world into our private lives. “Would it be so bad, letting people know?” he starts, tentatively. “I… I want a future, Katniss. I want us to be real.”

 

“We are real,” I whisper back, but there’s a note of hysteria in my voice.

 

“I know,” he rushes to reassure me. “But I want more. I want always.” He sits up, bringing me with him. I’m confused when he reaches for his jacket, on the edge of full on panic. But he simply pulls something from the pocket. A small black velvet box. And I can’t breathe.

 

“Marry me,” he says simply. “Let me tell the world that you’re mine, for real. For always.”

 

I don’t answer in words, but the way I press my shaking hand into both of his, and the tears that spill down my cheeks as he slides the simple diamond solitaire onto my finger are answer enough. I don’t know what the future will bring, but we’ll face it. Together.


	11. So we meet again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Modem AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From a tumblr meme, pick a line from column A and situation from column B. I was given #5 So we meet again + #17 Dating

**So we meet again + dating**

* * *

 

  
“It’s only for a few days,” I tell him, shoving a couple of last minute things into my suitcase. He’s lying in my bed, hair rumpled, eyes hooded. He’s so damned sexy, it takes every speck of self-restraint not to climb back into bed with him for another round.

  
“I know,” he sighs, grasping my hand and pulling it to his lips. I shudder at the touch of his mouth; his hot, sweet mouth, that mouth that’s brought me over the edge more times than I can count. He tugs me into the bed, but simply wraps me in his arms. “But I’ll miss you, Katniss,” he murmurs in my hair.

  
“Me too, Peeta,” I whisper back. “So much.” This is new for me; I’ve never let anyone into my life, into my heart like this before. There’s just too much that could go wrong.

  
But he crept up on me. He’s good and kind and so steady. I think I’m falling in love with him.

  
And that’s terrifying.

  
“I’ll call you tonight, from the hotel, okay?” He nods in reply, and I reluctantly leave his embrace.

  
“Enjoy your conference,” he calls after me.

  
~~~

  
Times like this I wish I really was an environmental scientist attending a plant pathology conference in Topeka. Instead Finnick, my handler, gives me last minute instructions as I thread a tiny microphone through the lace of my bra. There’s already a GPS tracker embedded in the underwire.

  
“No more than 10 minutes, Everdeen. I need you to find the informant, get the package and be out in ten. Darius will have a cab out front. Got it?”

  
“Why is there no intel on this guy, Finn? Not even a surveillance photo? This screams a trap.” I’ve been working for the Panem Intelligence Agency for years, this is not my first exchange, but everything about this one has me on edge. The seedy nightclub. The tight timeline. The lack of particulars on the target. He shrugs.

  
“Jo says he’s new, a recent recruit.” Jo’s another of our informants, a double agent. I’m not entirely sure I trust her, but this exchange is crucially important. I have no choice but to ally with her. To put my life in her hands.

  
The nightclub is dim, lights flash and techno music pulses. The only description I have for my target is tall and blond, but this is Berlin, half the people in this club are tall and blond. I scan the crowd anyway, muttering under my breath so that Finnick, monitoring me from a nearby warehouse, can hear my displeasure.

  
A firm body presses against my back, a soft voice murmurs in my ear, quietly enough that my microphone won’t pick it up. “So we meet again.” Eight years of training flies out of my head as I whirl to face the man I left in my bed just 30 hours ago, regarding me with bewildered blue eyes.

  
For several long moments my mouth opens and shuts soundlessly, a fish out of water. Then he smirks, and sticks out his hand. “Good evening,” he says, a thick German accent changing his voice to something almost unrecognizable. “I am Cato. Would you like to have a drink with me?”

  
“Effie,” I say a bit breathlessly. “And yes, I’d love to.”


	12. Winter headcanon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On Tumblr there was a discussion about Everlark winter headcanons... I wrote mine in drabble form. Canon-compliant post-MJ.

**Winter headcanon**

 

Winters are hard for Katniss, they always have been. Before the war, winter was about staying warm when there was no coal for a fire and not starving to death when there was precious little to hunt or gather in the woods.  

 

And after the war, well, winter is when she lost Prim, and invariably the season’s first flurries remind her of that day in circle city. There was snow that day too, huge lazy flakes that had just begun to collect on the walkways, perpetuating the false peace of that false place. Winter is, for Katniss, inextricably bound with fear and grief and loss.

 

Peeta knows these things, knows too that the short days, the lack of sunshine and the idleness of the season too contributes to her low moods. But he doesn’t have to like it.

 

So he takes her for walks in the woods, hand in hand, bundled against the cold. He shows her the simple beauty of pine boughs bent with snow, wintery finery sparkling in the thin solstice light.

 

He teaches her to fold and cut sheets of bakery parchment, creating works of art with just a few snips of her scissors, and he threads the paper snowflakes on bits of twine, stringing them in the windows of their home.

 

He bakes cheese buns and brews hot chocolate. He touches her more, grounding her in the now, keeping her thoughts in the present. And it helps.

 

In the time before the war they spent too long hiding their feelings and thoughts, so he never asks her to pretend to be happy. He never expects her to be anything but what she is.

 

On her worst days, on the days when the blackness creeps in, when the nightmares abound, on those days he lets his employees open the bakery for him. On those days he stays home, builds the fire up high and they simply sit wrapped in each other, watching the flames and weathering the sadness together.

 


	13. Mother's Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An Everlark drabble in honour of it being both Katniss’s birthday AND Mother’s Day in North America. Canon-compliant post-MJ, no warnings

**Mother’s Day**

> _When I first felt her stirring inside of me, I was consumed with a terror that felt as old as life itself.  Only the joy of holding her in my arms could tame it… Mockingjay epilogue_
> 
> * * *
> 
>  

I didn’t really expect to feel this way. People told me I’d fall in love with her when she got here, and I smiled, pretended to agree.

But I didn’t believe it.

My pregnancy was difficult, plagued with sickness and fear; I never really felt anything for the wriggling mass of my stomach except a faint resentment and a lot of guilt.  But I knew I would love her, eventually. I imagined it would be a gradual thing, that as we spent time together, that as I held her and fed her and cared for her I would grow to love her.

Instead, from the moment she emerged, slippery and red, squalling indignantly, every fibre of my being has been focused on her. It’s as if instead of her tiny form, it’s my own heart that’s been ripped from my body and laid, fragile and trembling, upon my breast.

She is only an hour old and already I can’t remember life before her. I can’t imagine my life without her.

In her face, in the puzzled wrinkle of her brow, in the precious pout of her perfect peach lips, I can see everyone I’ve ever loved.  The tuft of dark hair so much like my father’s. My mother’s delicate cheekbones.  Prim’s sweet, pert nose.  And Peeta, he is everywhere, the unfathomably tiny cleft in her incredibly tiny chin, the eyes that already seem to smile at me as they try, fuzzily, to follow my voice.  I fall more and more in love with them both as I mentally catalogue their similarities.

He’s curled up beside me, he hasn’t stopped touching me, touching her, since she arrived.  And while words are Peeta’s thing, while he’s renowned across Panem for his silver tongue, the entirety of his vocabulary over the last 60 minutes has consisted of _thank you_ , recited over and over, a benediction.

I can relate.  The gratitude I feel towards him for this most precious gift threatens to overwhelm me.  But she keeps me grounded, keeps me in the here and now.  Because now, in our bed, bathed in the orange glow of an autumn sunset, I’m not the Mockingjay, not the face of a revolution, not the murderous girl who survived two arenas and a war.  Here, now, I am something so much bigger.

I am a mother.


	14. Casino Niagara

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luck finds Katniss Everdeen at Casino Niagara. Everlark modern AU. Rated G.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the D12Drabbles challenge on Tumblr, week three. The prompt was 'serendipity'.

“C’mon Gale, we have to go right by it anyway, I just want to take a quick look!” he groans, but this isn’t a battle he’s going to win and he knows it.

Gale and I have been best friends since I was 12 but this is the first time we’ve ever traveled anywhere together. The trip was his idea; he’s leaving to go work in the oil sands next week and it’ll be months before we see each other again. So when he suggested a weekend in Niagara Falls I jumped at the chance. I’ve never been to the falls before.

“Fine,” he huffs. “Five minutes and then we move on.” But he almost cracks a smile as I grab his arm and detour, directing us towards the four stories of glass that make up the facade of Casino Niagara. I’ve never been in a casino before, never seen one except in the movies, and I’m curious.

Stepping through the massive doors is like stepping into an alternate reality.  It’s loud. It’s bright. It’s crowded. It’s so not my scene.

It’s not Gale’s scene either, and he looks bewildered. Almost overwhelmed. “Damn,” he mumbles. “This is nuts.” We wander a little, there are thousands of gaming machines, each one flashier than the one before.

“Seen enough?” I ask. This place isn't what I was expecting, it’s nothing like the James Bond movies. But Gale is sauntering wide-eyed towards a machine with characters from his favourite television show emblazoned on it, and I can’t help but smile. “Here.” I pull out a quarter from my pocket, and his face lights up like a kid in a candy store.

“You've gotta play one too, Catnip,” he insists, so I stand in front of the next machine. “On the count of three.”

There’s a giant button instead of an arm to pull, which is kind of a let down. But on three we both smack the buttons on the machine. When mine stops I haven’t a clue whether I've won or not. It’s very confusing.

Gale’s machine is all flashing lights and music and clanking, but no coins pour from the bottom so I assume we’re both losers. “Oh my God,” he breathes, barely audible over the machine’s racket. I'm already walking away, but he grabs my arm roughly. “I won!”

He’s smiling, actually smiling, and it makes me smile too though I'm confused.  There’s still no money coming out of the machine. When I point that out he snickers. “It’s all credits now, this isn't  _Casino Royale_.” With a thick finger he points out on the electronic display that he has 100 credits. That works out to be twenty-five bucks.

“Holy shit, that’s amazing! Ice cream is on you!” He laughs, and wraps an arm around me. There’s a button to cash out the credits, but instead of reaching for it he pushes the play button again.

And again he wins. Another 100 credits are added to his tally.

“I can’t go now, not when I’m up like this! I’m going to play a little.”

I shrug. “Fine, I’m going to look around then. Ten more minutes?” He nods, but he’s not even facing me any more, pressing the button on his machine with fervor.

The casino is massive, I meander through an army of electronic machines before finding a quieter section, where people play cards.  I glance around, but there’s really nothing interesting here. The roulette tables, however, are fascinating. Try as I might I can’t understand the reasoning behind the game, nor why people bet the way they do. I get so lost in trying to figure it out that a half hour passes without my realizing.

I practically bolt back to where I left Gale, making a handful of wrong turns along the way, fully expecting him to be cranky that I was gone so long. But he’s still sitting at the same machine, watching the electronic ‘wheels’ spin unblinking. I glance at the little corner display.

1,298 credits.

“Fuck Gale, that’s more than three hundred dollars!” He turns and nods at me, an odd look in his eyes. “Come on, get your quarters and let’s go! We’ve been in here almost an hour and that’s more than enough for me.”

“Catnip,” he whines.  Whines? Gale is not a whiner, what the hell. “This machine is hot, I can’t go!”

“There’s no such thing as a hot machine, Gale. Cash out, chop chop, I’ll help you spend your winnings. Time’s a-wasting!”

“Why don’t you go on up to the falls without me, I’m just going to finish here and then I’ll catch up. We’ll do Clifton Hill together.” I scowl at him, but he barely notices, his attention split between me at the flashing machine.

“Come on Gale, this is stupid, you could be playing video games at home instead of wasting time on our trip!” At that his face hardens.

“It’s my vacation too, and you’re not the one who is going to be spending the next six months in the middle of nowhere working on a rig. So fucking excuse me if I want to have a little fun, Katniss.” He hisses out my name and I recoil.

“Fine, have your fun, Gale. Maybe I’ll see you around.” I turn on my heel and stomp away, expecting that he’ll chase after me.

But he doesn’t.

And I find myself standing on the main road of a strange city 6 hours away from home, all alone.

I can hear the falls, though, so I follow the sound. It isn’t very far until I’m standing on a walkway, looking down into the most stunning sight I have ever seen. Pictures simply don’t do it justice. Leaning against the iron railing, looking down into an unfathomably huge rush of water; the noise of it, the slight vibration, the mist that peppers my face. It’s the absolute definition of awe.

I wander along the walkway by the river.  From every angle the falls are incredible. It’s when I’m snapping a few pictures on my phone to send to Prim that I notice it. An easel, angled in such a way so as to keep the ever present mist from hitting the painted side.

Someone is painting the falls. And though I'm standing on the precipice of the real deal I cannot take my eyes off the artwork. I creep closer, as if summoned. It’s extraordinary.

I’m not sure how long I stand there, gaping, before there’s a quiet cough behind me. I spin,  almost smacking a stranger with my braid. His paint-stained hands fly out to steady me, hovering close enough to my arms that I can feel their heat.

“I'm sorry,” I gasp, startled and embarrassed to have been caught gawking at what it obviously his work.

“It’s okay,” he laughs, and it’s deep and resonant, I swear I can feel it in my own chest. “I don’t mind if you look.”

It takes a moment for my heart to settle, when it does I lift my eyes from the stranger’s broad chest to his face. He’s grinning at me, but it’s a kind smile that crinkles the corners of his bright blue eyes. “Peeta,” he says, holding his hand out towards me and I stare at him blankly. After a moment his grin gets impossibly wider. “Okay, let’s try this again. Hi, my name is Peeta, and you are?” He trails off and I can feel heat rising in my cheeks.

“Katniss,” I tell him, and shake his paint spattered hand. It’s huge and so warm, encompassing mine completely.

“Are you from around here, Katniss,” he asks, and the sound of my name rolling off his tongue is oddly erotic. I don’t trust my voice, so I simply shake my head. “Me neither,” he continues, “But my brother lives nearby and I like to come out here to paint. Uh, obviously, I guess.” He rubs the back of his neck self-consciously, and it’s endearing.

“This is my first visit,” I admit, though I'm certainly not one to share that kind of information with a stranger. But Peeta seems harmless enough. Sweet, even.

“Really? What have you done here so far?”

I sigh. “Uh, nothing really, not yet anyway. Well, I mean, I've seen the falls. I came with a friend, but he’s been at the casino all day.” I glance at my phone, again, but there are still no messages.

“Oh,” he says, and his brow furrows a little. “I take it the casino wasn't on your itinerary?” I laugh, despite myself.

“Actually I was the one who wanted to see it. I thought it’d be like in the movies.”

“But it’s not,” Peeta chimes in, and I shake my head, still smiling. “What else were you planning on seeing?”

At my shrug Peeta launches into a detailed description of all of the things I should do while I’m here, though I don’t listen all that attentively. Instead, I find myself fixated on his eyelashes, light golden in the warm afternoon sun that bathes his face, and so long I don’t see how they keep from getting all tangled up when he blinks.

He’s not exceptionally handsome, but he’s cute, and fit, and the way his arms pull and flex as he gestures is doing strange things to my belly. I snap out of my reverie and try to pay attention, but the tingles don’t dissipate.  If anything, they grow stronger.

We move back to the railing over the falls, and he tells me more about the area, pointing out the landmarks we can see. The mist freckles his golden waves with glittering droplets, makes the ends curve up, and I have to clasp my hands together to quell the urge to run my fingers through the damp curls.

Eventually we turn our attention to the people wandering the area. Peeta describes each of the tourists around us in ways that are funny without ever veering into cruel. I laugh more in a couple of hours chatting with Peeta than I have in the past year. And the more we chat, the more attracted I am to him.

“Listen,” he says, and there’s a shy timbre to his voice. “I was heading to the Butterfly Conservatory, to sketch. It’s a pretty cool place, I think you’d like it. Do you want to come with me?”

And though I've never once in my life been spontaneous I find myself nodding shyly at him. “I need to check in with my friend though.”

“Sure,” Peeta says with an easy smile. “I’ll tuck this stuff into my car, and then walk you to the casino.

The walk isn’t very long, but we chat the whole way. He’s remarkably easy to talk to. He asks me where I'm from and I chuckle. “Panem. It’s a pretty small town, you've probably never heard of it.” My sister and I moved there a few years ago with our mother, after our father’s death.

He stops abruptly, staring at me incredulously. “You’re kidding,” he says, and I shake my head, bewildered. “I'm from Panem too,” he says. “My family owns the bakery on Main.” It’s my turn to stare.

“No way,” I breathe. “Mellark’s, right?” It’s a fancy little place, I could never afford to shop there but I’ve looked through the windows more than once.

“Wow,” he says softly. “I can’t believe we've never met before.”

“Well, we live in the Seam, I don’t get into the town all that often,” I admit. The Seam is on the outskirts of Panem, rural and fairly poor, but our little home there is nice enough.

“Still,” he says, and then he laughs. “I can’t believe I'm meeting you in a city six hours from home! Talk about luck!”

“Luck?”

“Well, yeah,” he says, and that shy smile is back. “Here I was thinking damn, I've met the prettiest girl in the world but after today I might not see her again. And then it turns out she’s practically my neighbour.” He’s flirting with me.

And I like it.

“I guess the odds were in our favour,” I murmur, and his smile gets even larger.

“I guess they were.” We start walking again, and our hands find each other as we do, fingers entwined.

Gale is still at the same machine when we get back to the casino. “Catnip!” he shouts over the din as we approach. I can see the counter of credits is even higher than when I left hours ago. “This place is incredible! It’s the luckiest place in the world!”

  
I glance up at Peeta and smile. “I couldn't agree more.”


	15. The morning after

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everlark, the morning after 'real'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From a Tumblr picture prompt by @everlarkedalways. Rated T

She slipped out of bed before I woke up, which isn’t unusual. Katniss has never been one for lounging. But it unnerves me today.

We made love last night, for the first time.

It was everything I had ever dreamed, and so much more. And after, as she laid in my arms, flushed and trembling with exhaustion, she told me that she loves me.

To find her gone this morning makes the insecure part of my brain flare. I need to find her, to see that she’s real. That we are real.

My pajama bottoms are crumpled on the floor but the top is nowhere to be found. A plain tee from the drawer will do. I’ve only pulled it half on when I stumble out of the room. But when I come downstairs I can hear her puttering in the kitchen, humming. Though she must hear my approach she doesn’t turn, steadfastly facing the stove.

The morning light streaming through the window crowns her in fire, caresses her unbound locks. She’s wearing the missing top to my pajamas; it engulfs her lithe frame and falls just to the top of her bare thighs.

The combination of nerves and arousal threaten to buckle my knees, and I stagger to the table. The shriek of chair legs scraping against the wooden floor makes Katniss jump, and she spins around wide-eyed.

For several breathless moments we simply stare at each other warily, neither certain how to behave this morning, this morning when nothing is different and yet somehow everything has changed.

And then her eyes soften.

She walks with a dancer’s grace; the hem of my shirt shifts, revealing just a sliver of white panties to my hungry eyes. She still doesn’t understand, the effect she has on me. She sets the teapot on the table and moves to stand between my knees. “Good morning, Peeta,” she murmurs, her voice a little husky. But it’s her smile that does me in, soft and sweet and full of love.

I need to touch her, to feel her skin, scarred and soft in turn, pressed against mine. Her thigh is firm and just slightly cool under my hand. I stroke it with just the slightest pressure, raising goosebumps in my wake, and she responds immediately, shifting to straddle my lap. Every insecurity melts away as her hands cup my neck, our mouths meet in a kiss that starts sweetly but builds quickly.

How could I have any doubts when she’s mewling and rocking against my erection, when her taut nipples brush against my chest, when her tongue paints the thin skin of my throat? There are no cameras here, there is no one to convince. There is just us, loving and learning together. Always.


	16. Brave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the Tumblr D12 Drabbles prompt: Disney.

It’s light as air, gossamer, ethereal. But I can’t keep the scowl off my face as I look at the price tag.  Forty-five bucks for a scratchy scrap of green tulle and lace? Highway robbery!

“Not that one, love,” Peeta’s soft voice purrs in my ear. “The blue, definitely the blue.” He backs away and smirks at me, gesturing towards another rack of diaphanous garments. I roll my eyes at him, but put the itchy green outfit back on the rail, in favour of its itchy blue counterpart.

“What’s so special about the blue one anyway,” I grouse under my breath.

A perky pink-haired store associate appears out of nowhere, the stench of _commissioned sales_ heavy in the air. “Don’t you know, darling,” pink-hair trills. “All of the little girls want to be the blonde princess, of course!” She gestures around the store and, indeed, more than three-quarters of the merchandise features the princess in blue.

“The perfect blonde princess and her dark-haired sister, how novel,” I grunt, and Peeta snickers. Pinky smiles beatifically, undeterred by my lukewarm tone as she tries to strong-arm me towards the cash register where her sales quota awaits. Peeta beats a hasty retreat. Coward.

I mumble something unintelligible, escaping the sales monster and moving away to look for a few more things. When I’ve found everything I need, I choose a different cashier. I’m pretty sure the pink-wigged fiend mutters _manners_ under her breath, so I glance around, trying to avoid her glare.

Peeta’s halfway across the store, crouched down beside a little pigtailed moppet, listening intently as she animatedly gestures at a fluffy blue stuffed monster on the shelf beside her.

The sight nearly takes my breath away.

Peeta is great with kids. If anyone was ever meant to be a parent, it’s him.

Instead, we’re braving the mall and an overbright Disney store to shop for his niece.

His brothers are both married, with three kids between them, and Peeta is a doting uncle, showering them with attention and affection. He spoils our friends’ children too. And little ones who come into his bakery are always met with a smile and a cookie.

And yet, he’s never asked me for children. Not once in four years of marriage. Not once in a decade of dating.

Peeta and I have been friends since we were barely older than the little girl in front of him, and have been together since high school. He knows my fears. A dead father and absentee mother left me terrified to bring children into a world rife with instability.

He glances over at me and smiles, the smile he saves just for me. The smile that makes me feel cherished. Safe. Loved.

The moment is interrupted when the young cashier asks for my credit card. By the time she finishes my transaction, Peeta has joined me. “You know,” he murmurs. “I prefer the dark-haired sister myself.” And I laugh.

* * *

I’m fiddling with a ream of wrapping paper on our dining room table, watching Peeta fish through the Disney store bag, pulling out each item in turn. He snorts when he reaches the bottom.

“You know there’s no way my brother will let us give this to Lila,” he chuckles, fingering the tiny bow and quiver. The arrowheads are suction cups and the fletching is plastic, but the bow itself at least superficially resembles the recursive bow that my father gave me years ago. The one I still use on periodic hunting weekends with my cousin.

“I know,” I tell him. “That’s for another birthday.” At his raised eyebrow I reach for his hand and place it over my still-flat belly. “In about seven months time.”


	17. Things I Didn't Dare Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon, Peeta reflects on how his dreams for his future were shaped over the years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the D12Drabbles challenge on Tumblr, prompt: children.

I never really thought about having children when I was a child myself. I guess I assumed it would happen someday, but young me was more focused on staying out of my mother’s warpath and convincing Rye and Brann to let me play with them.

By the time I was old enough to think about my future it had all been planned out by my mother. I’d marry, right out of school, one of the merchant girls who had no brothers, maybe the blacksmith’s daughter, then become her father’s apprentice, have two children and live miserably ever after. That I didn’t like the blacksmith’s daughter and didn’t want to pound iron for a living didn’t matter. It was that or the mines, and as far as my mother was concerned I’d be better off dead than working in the mines.

And then I was reaped.

It’s not like growing up in District 12 was easy, but until that moment I had never felt particularly unsafe. Obviously the Reaping hung over everyone’s heads, but it was almost always Seam kids who were reaped, not the merchants. So very seldom the merchants. Any vague ideas I might have had about my future were wiped cleanly away when Effie Trinket lifted my name from that glass bowl.

But I survived the games. Not only did I survive, but I survived with _Katniss_ , with the girl who had held my heart in her hands nearly my entire youth. That should have been my happily ever after; surviving the games, living the life of a victor with the girl of my dreams by my side.

It didn’t work out that way. At least, not at first.

It’s taken me years, and a lot of therapy, to understand that not every kiss in those games was fake. But at sixteen years old all I knew was that the loss of the future I’d started to hope for, with Katniss, was more painful than the loss of my leg.

And then the roller coaster ride of highs and lows that followed: the lies, the nights on the train, the forced engagement, the hardships that befell our district, the quiet moments with Katniss, getting to truly know her, falling more deeply in love with her…

I let myself start to dream. Let myself envision winning Katniss over with patience (and cheese buns). The wedding might have been for the Capitol, but the marriage could have been real. Thinking about children was easy, natural, when I pictured Katniss as their mother.

Then the Quell was announced.

I knew with utmost certainty that I wouldn’t come back a second time. But I was determined not only that Katniss _would_ , but that she’d have the life I’d dreamed of.

Just with somebody else.

There were forces at play that neither Katniss nor I knew about, and once again my plans for the future were shot to hell, destroyed, decimated. I was shot to hell, destroyed, decimated. There was nothing left of my dreams because, by the time I was lifted from the Capitol dungeons, there was nothing left of me.

It’s been five, ten, fifteen years. I’m a man now; married to the woman I’ve been privileged to fall in love with over and over again. _My Katniss_. We have the future I didn’t dare dream of for myself, for so many years. A quiet home in our peaceful district. Freedom. Friends. A marriage that’s strong and loving and real.

And now, a child. Our child.

When Katniss and I returned to District 12 after the war we were both so broken. Still just  children ourselves, alone in the world but for each other, forced to grow up far too fast. It took years of hard work, of patience, of fights and misunderstandings, of laughter and tears and pain, to build ourselves back up.

We did it together.

For so many of those years, the idea of children simply never crossed my mind. I had in Katniss the loving family I craved, and that was enough. _We_ were enough. Even when our friends and neighbors starting having babies I didn’t really consider it a possibility for me. Still battling inner demons, still prone to flashbacks that left me confused and terrified, gripping the back of a chair, I simply didn’t trust myself to be able to care for a child. I know what it’s like to grow up afraid of your parent, unable to rely on your parent. I could never have done that to another child.

Ironically, it was Katniss who convinced me. Katniss, who had for so long insisted that she never wanted kids, could never risk failing another child the way she believed she failed Prim. Katniss made me see that I would be a good father, not in spite of my flaws, but because of them. We have overcome so much, learned a hundred lifetimes worth and discovered that, together, we are an unstoppable force. An unbeatable team.

We are so much better together. And we have so much to give.

Still, it took several more years before we were ready. Several more years of talking and reflecting, soul searching. I changed my mind a hundred times. Katniss changed hers a hundred and one. But that day when we found out that we were going to be parents there were no second thoughts. We both wanted this child, desperately.

I’m not saying it was easy. Katniss spent a large part of the pregnancy plagued by terror and self-doubt. I was tormented by nightmares. But we had each other.

Our daughter was born on a perfect spring day, at sunset. And though I’ve loved my wife - my beautiful, incredible Katniss - for practically my entire life, I have never loved her more than I did that day. Holding her hand as she labored tirelessly to bring our baby into the world, I was in awe of her strength, of her power.

And when the midwife placed our daughter, impossibly tiny and screaming in righteous indignation, into her mother’s arms for the first time I swear I felt my heart explode into a million pieces. Everything we had endured over our lives was worth it just to experience that moment.

That moment when I became a father.


	18. Free Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Far out fluff, man!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the D12 Drabbles challenge on Tumbr, prompt: Time Twister, Everlark in a different era.

It was Annie’s idea.

“Come on, man,” she’d laughed, smoke circling her head. “There’s gonna be thousands of hippies, you can sell a ton of your shit!” And then she devolved into giggles. Weed always made Annie spacey.

“Annie, money just supports the establishment, world’s got enough for everybody’s need but not for everybody’s greed!” Peeta watched as Annie fell back on the couch, lost in her own world, and he figured the matter had been dropped.

Until Finnick got back to the yurt they shared.

“Peeta! Did you see this?” He thrust a torn but colourful poster into Peeta’s hands, an image of a dove perched on the frets of a guitar.

He examined the poster closely, looking at the sloppy way the screens had been aligned for printing. Peeta knew he could do a far better job himself. But when he told Finnick that the other man scoffed. “I know that, man, but check out the sweet gig. Music festival, man! Hendrix is gonna be there!”

Peeta tossed the poster on the table, intending to ignore it completely. But later, when Finn and Annie were fucking loudly in the small space and he really needed to get away he saw it again, and took it with him out into the sultry evening.

Art Show. The words called to him from the page. He’d been living in this artist’s cooperative for four months now, had produced a huge number of prints. And while he didn’t care about money, not really, he at least wanted to share his work with people outside of the commune. 

* * *

“Too early,” Annie pouted, though it was already 11:30. “Why do we have to leave so early?” Peeta was stacking canvasses and boards in the back of his ‘59 Chevy van; it wasn’t the hippest vehicle, but he’d laid carpet in the back and hung curtains in the windows and it was pretty groovy, if he said so himself. Annie flung herself unceremoniously onto the orange shag and crashed.

It took more than three hours to drive the ten miles between the commune and Yasgur’s farm, and Peeta started to get excited; the gridlock of cars on the thruway suggested a huge new audience for his art.

Finn and Annie disappeared as soon as he’d parked, heading into the crowd around the massive natural amphitheatre. Peeta scoped out a spot for his work, among the stands of tie-dye and hand blown bongs, while eyeing the dark clouds that were rolling in.

Annie was right about one thing, business was brisk; he’d earned back the eighteen bucks he’d had to fork out for the tickets within the first couple of hours. By nightfall he was feeling good; he had a flask of wine, enough bread in his pocket to get by for a while, and the music was far out.

Then the rain started. Softly, at first. The artists around him, almost all stoned, just laughed, but Peeta packed his prints and started hauling them back to the truck. He wasn’t so blitzed that he was going to risk ruining months’ worth of work.

As the rain intensified the music stopped, and panic seemed to set in. The swarm of people trying to gather up their wares blocked Peeta from saving his own work. He was starting to freak out when she appeared, like an angel. A tiny little thing, with eyes like diamonds and coal-black hair braided with flowers, she had a guitar on her back and a big plastic sheet that she draped over the stacks in his arms.

She stayed with him until everything was packed away, getting drenched herself. Raindrops clung to her thick, black lashes, sparkling when she blinked. Peeta was a goner. “Do you want to get out of the rain?” he asked, holding his breath. She looked at him appraisingly, looked through him maybe, before she quirked a half smile and nodded, climbing into the van behind him.

Her eyes widened as she took in the cozy set up. “Nice,” she murmured, the first word she’d said to him. Her voice was deep and throaty, like Joplin’s. Unexpected, and yet it suited her somehow. Made her seem even more sultry. “I’m Katniss,” she said, reaching out a small hand.

“Peeta,” he replied, his own voice rough from wine and lust. The first brush of her skin against his was electric; a buzz that ran up his arm and through his gut. The way her brows furrowed suggested she felt it too. “So, ah, you’re a musician?” He fumbled for words; usually he was a silver-tongued charmer, but there was something about this girl that turned him into a spaz.

But she laughed, and it was the most righteous thing he’d ever heard. “Yeah,” she rasped. “Thought I’d get to jam with some cats, but it’s not working out that way. My friends split when we got here, I haven’t seen them since.” She shrugged, not looking particularly upset by the revelation.

“Mine too,” Peeta laughed, passing her the flask of wine. They drank for a while in companionable silence. Finally, he dared ask. “Would… would you play for me?” At that she smiled fully.

He didn’t know what he was expecting. But the first lines of _Sitting on the Dock of the Bay_ flowed from her lips like warm caramel and he was completely bewitched. As he stared, slack-jawed, she filled the stuffy space with song.

The van wasn’t huge, and half-filled as it was with Peeta’s art there was only just enough room for the two of them to sit side by side. As she switched to _Hey Jude_ her head settled on his shoulder, as if it had always belonged there. And by the time she’d moved on to Simon and Garfunkel his arm was around her, caressing her waist over her loose peasant blouse.

Wordlessly, she set aside her guitar. Somewhere in the distance music was playing again, muted by the drone of rain on the steel roof, but Peeta could only register _Katniss_ , the softness of her lips as she leaned in to kiss him, the sweet warmth of clove gum and wine that lingered on her tongue.

He was lost in her.

It was seamless, organic, how easily they came together, how perfectly they fit, so much better than the most far out acid trip because it was real. Katniss was real and she was singing just for him in the fogged up back of his van.

For forty hours they were inseparable, leaving the musty van only for quick mud-slick trips to find more food and wine. Peeta didn’t sell another piece, but Katniss jammed all weekend long, a performance for one.

* * *

All good things must come to an end. Jimi Hendrix had only just put away his guitar when Finnick and Annie found their way back to the van through the dramatically thinned crowd, filthy and oblivious.

Peeta leaned against the side of the van, Katniss in his arms. “I don’t want to let you go,” he confessed sadly. He was falling in love with her, but he knew her life was elsewhere.

“Me either,” she admitted before they lapsed into silence. Eventually she pulled back. “I’ve gotta find my crowd.”

“Yeah.” He released her, then sighed deeply, running his fingers through his matted curls. “Katniss… do you think?” Then he stopped, uncertain how to continue.

“You live in the commune, near Panem, right?” There was a twinkle in her eye. 

He nodded. 

“Can I come see you?” 

He laughed in relief. “Always, baby. Always.”


	19. Finnick's Island

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This might be the silliest thing I’ve ever written. For D12Drabbles on Tumblr; Everlark, in the “Gilligan’s Island” universe. (If you’ve never seen this show it’s the cheesiest, campiest bit of 70’s era television, so bad it’s almost good. And by good I mean atrocious). I blame @peetabreadgirl for this, wholly and completely ;) And thanks to @burkygirl for stealing all of my commas…

 

“I’m really not sure about this,” I say, pulling the Subaru into a spot in the marina’s lot.

“It’ll be fine,” my girlfriend laughs. “It’s only a three-hour tour anyway. We’ll be back in time for dinner on the beach.” At that, I smile. Katniss has planned this entire trip for us to celebrate my 30th birthday and it’s been full of surprisingly sweet and romantic gestures - sunsets on the beach, trips to the art gallery, a real local luau instead of one of those touristy things.

The boat tour, however, is neither sweet nor romantic.

I hate boats, have never even learned to swim. But when the concierge at the hotel offered us tickets on a private island charter, Katniss lit up like a flame. How could I say no as she struggled to disguise her hopeful expression?

Seldom can I resist anything she asks of me. I just wish she’d reconsider that one thing I’ve asked her, repeatedly. The one thing I’ve wanted for so long.

“It’s going to be amazing, trust me!” Katniss smiles and I let her lead me towards the docks.

* * *

“There it is,” she says, pointing to a white craft at the far end of the slip. It’s small, much smaller than I was expecting.

“Are you sure that’s ocean worthy?” I ask, unable to keep the trepidation from my voice.

“The _SS Minnow_ is state of the art, I’ll have you know.” We both jump and spin around. Standing on the dock behind us is an extremely attractive young man, red polo barely containing his muscled torso, bronze curls tumbling from under a ridiculous white bucket hat. “Finnick Odair,” he says. “First mate.”

I shake the hand he offers me reluctantly, unhappy with the way he’s openly leering at Katniss. She, of course, is oblivious. She’ll never understand, the effect she has. “Peeta Mellark,” I grumble. “And my girlfriend, Katniss.” Finnick’s hand lingers just a little too long, clasped around Katniss’s dainty fingers. I’m relieved to see her scowl and pull her hand away.

Finnick leads us to the boat, which seems even smaller up close, more a dinghy than a touring vessel. We board, and I cling miserably to the rail while Katniss fills out the passenger manifest. _Only three hours_ , I remind myself. I can do this, for Katniss.

“Peeta, look!” She slides beside me and points to the gangway. Boarding the tug is a familiar-looking woman with flowing brown hair and an ethereal aura. “Annie Cresta,” Katniss whispers in my ear. “She’s in that movie, about the post apocalyptic games.”

I nod. “I thought she looked familiar.” Katniss and I saw that movie recently. Or I saw it. Katniss ate all of the popcorn, then fell asleep on my shoulder.

It was kind of adorable.

Katniss rubs my back, perhaps sensing my discomfort. “Come sit with me,” she murmurs, directing me to the plush seats at the bow. I’m incredibly grateful that she doesn’t want to climb to the upper deck instead, even though the view is probably better up there. The rocking of the boat down here is terrifying enough.

Finnick provides champagne and plastic flutes, then disappears to flirt with that actress on the upper deck. Other people board, but my attention is completely captivated by the beauty beside me. The woman I’ve been in love with since before I even knew what that meant.

The breeze blows tendrils of her ebony hair. I catch a lock between my fingers, marveling at its softness. Fifteen years together, and still touching any part of her is a thrill. She smiles as I tuck the lock behind her ear, caressing her cheek. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.

Our tender moment is interrupted by a loud belch.

A paunchy, middle-aged man is hauling in the ramp, getting ready to launch. His blue polo rides up and his white pants are slung low enough to give us an eyeful. Katniss buries her face, and her laughter, in my shoulder.

It’s only when we’re underway that I realize just how few passengers there are on board. Katniss and I are the only two in the bow; above us a handful of people lean over the deck rail, watching the water stream by below. I can’t dwell on them without my breakfast threatening to make a return visit – lifting my head that way makes the boat’s motion so much more unbearable.

By the time we’re 35 minutes into the journey it’s clear that looking up isn’t the only thing that triggers the seasickness. Apparently, so does looking down, looking forward, looking at anything at all, and closing my eyes. I’m curled in a ball on the upholstered bench, wishing for my own demise. Katniss strokes my head and hums, but I know she’d rather be looking at the sights than tending to my pitiful self. “Join the others, love,” I groan. “One of us might as well enjoy this.”

“You’re not gonna vomit on my deck, are ya kid?” I crack one eye open to see the paunchy guy from before hovering over me. The stench of unwashed body and liquor makes vomiting so much more likely. “Shit,” he grunts. “Hang on kid, there was a doctor listed on the manifest.” He stomps off, and I suck in deep drags of clean ocean air. My relief is short-lived. “Dr. Mellark,” I hear him yelling, and I’d roll my eyes if I wasn’t certain that it’d make the seasickness worse.

Katniss calls the guy over, and explains that I am, in fact, Dr. Mellark. “Huh,” he says. “Well if you’re a doctor, why don’t you know how to treat yourself?”

I groan again; he’s leaned in and hot gusts of pine-and-booze wash over me, stirring up the tide in my stomach. “I’m a Ph.D,” I gasp, trying to breathe as little as humanly possible.

“Oh,” he grunts. “Not a real doctor.” Great, now he’s channelling my mother. When Katniss takes offence to his pronouncement, explaining my research, bragging that I’m the youngest person to have been conferred tenure at the university, I almost smile. “Hmph,” he grunts. “Okay, _Professor_ , I’ll see if anyone else has got something for you.”

“What about the captain?” Katniss asks, and the paunchy guy laughs.

“I am the captain, Sweetheart. Captain Haymitch Abernathy, at your service.” He attempts a strange little bow that looks more like a stagger. “But you can call me ‘Skipper’.”

“Well, Skipper,” Katniss says, and I can tell she’s pissed. “If you’re the captain, then who the hell is steering the ship?” My eyes fly open at that. Haymitch is still standing in front of us, and Katniss is pointing upwards where Finnick, the first mate, is leaning over the rail, half-wrapped in the movie star.

Haymitch makes a frustrated noise. “Top of the line navigation system. Steers itself.” And then he stomps away without any further offers of assistance.

* * *

Near what I imagine to be the midpoint of our journey, things change dramatically. Clouds roll in. The weather starts getting rough, and the tiny ship is tossed. Now the drunkard skipper and playboy first mate suddenly seem to take their jobs seriously, which is almost more frightening than their lackadaisical attitudes of before.

When the rain starts, they escort everyone into the cramped cabin, and force us all into life vests. “Stay alive,” the skipper grunts, slamming the door snugly behind him. Very reassuring.

Surprisingly, it seems only five passengers set sail today. Annie Cresta, the movie star we saw boarding earlier. A ridiculously overdressed woman who complains nonstop about the inadequacy of the accommodations and what the salt spray has done to her hair, which, now that I look at it, appears to be a wig anyway. A tall, dark and brooding man, equally overdressed, who simply rolls his eyes and looks out the windows, over the water. Katniss. And me.

Rain pelts on the cabin roof, first a slapping staccato, then a constant drone. Thunder pulses. It’s almost pitch black, despite the fact that it’s only early afternoon. But the blackness is better than the flashes of lightning that illuminate five horror-stricken faces. Occasionally, we can hear the skipper or first mate yelling over the din. Fearless.

There’s something about abject terror that supersedes my stomach’s complaints. I’m sure I’m still nauseous, but I don’t even notice it as the boat pitches and keels. All I’m focused on is Katniss, trembling beside me. “I’m sorry, Peeta,” she whimpers, and I pull her as close as our life jackets will allow.

“Shhh,” I try to calm her through my hysteria. “It’s going to be okay.” I’m not at all convinced of that, but she sighs and grips me tighter. We’re on the floor, backs against the wall, my legs braced on the edge of a bench, trying to keep both of us from being thrown. The other three are similarly cowering across from us. For a long time no one speaks, the roar of the storm makes conversation impossible anyway.

A brilliant white flash blinds me. An enormous crack splits the air, followed by the tangy ozone taste of lightning and the unmistakable smell of frying electronics.

Water covers the floor. I can’t tell if it’s from the rain, or if the hull has been breached. Someone is wailing, and a second voice attempts to soothe them. I can’t hear the crew outside anymore.

We are going to die.

“Peeta?” Katniss straddles me, lays her head on my shoulder, our life-jacket-covered torsos flush as she holds on tightly. I stroke her hair, damp now from rain and fear, but still silky. “If we don’t get out of this-”

“We will,” I interrupt.

“But if we don't… I have to tell you something.” In the pitch black I can’t see her expression but her lips shake as they brush my ear. “I… I had an ulterior motive. For this trip.” She barks out the saddest excuse for a laugh. “Not this boat trip,” she clarifies. “The rest of it.” I press my lips to her temple and hear her sniffle. “I wanted to tell you that I’m ready,” she says simply, and I freeze.

“Ready?” I breathe. My traitorous heart leaps. Is she saying what I hope she’s saying?

“I want to marry you, Peeta.” The boat is still heaving and lurching and my mouth tastes like barf but I kiss her anyway, and she responds furiously, our teeth and noses bashing as the boat sways.

This is where I should be thinking ‘I can die happy now.’ Instead, the idea that finally, after nearly twelve years of asking, she’s agreeing to become my wife… Well now my desire to live, to make it out of this mess, has increased exponentially.

* * *

The storm abates as quickly as it started. All at once the rain stops, and gradually the giant waves spend themselves. The five of us remain still and silent in the otherworldly post-storm glow, sitting in two inches of water. The storm is gone, but the terror remains.

When the cabin door is wrenched open, someone screams. It might be me. “Everyone all right down there?” It’s the first mate, soaked to the bone. I have no idea how he’s still here.

Turns out the skipper made it through the storm too, not even any worse for wear. They pull out water bottles, emergency food bars, and blankets. We sit on the bow deck, watching the tropical sunset paint the sky in shades of gold and orange. But it’s like the eye of the storm, because while we’re all safe, the Minnow sustained heavy damage. Electrical, propulsion, navigation, GPI beacon; all fried. The satellite phone, too, is gone. No phone, no lights, no motor.

Haymitch is pragmatic. “Got enough supplies to last a couple of days. They’ll find us by then. Just have to hunker down and stay alive.” That advice is getting old.

* * *

The night is moonless, a million stars sparkle above. The dark-haired man and complaining woman, a married couple we learn, have taken the cabin to sleep in, though the woman whines about it. The movie star and mate disappear somewhere to the aft. The skipper is keeping watch on the upper deck, but by how loudly he’s snoring it’s apparent the only thing he’s watching is the back of his eyelids.

Katniss and I are back on the bow, back where this crazy journey started, lying on the deck and watching the stars. “Katniss,” I whisper. “What you said earlier. Was… was it real?”

She rolls, half on top of me, chin digging into my chest. In the blackness her expression is unreadable, but the smile in her voice is unmistakable. “Real. I wouldn’t joke about that, Peeta. I know… I know I’ve made you wait a long time.” That’s an understatement. I’ve proposed to Katniss Everdeen four times over the decade and a half we’ve been dating. At our high school graduation, when she just laughed and said we were too young. At her college grad, when she suggested moving in together instead. On her 25th birthday, with my grandmother’s ring, a grey pearl set in gold, flanked by tear-drop diamonds. And most recently, less than a year ago, the night I signed my contract at the university, flushed with success and whiskey. Each time she’s insisted that she loves me, but that we are already more married than any piece of paper or big party could make us. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately, about getting married. Maybe…” she pauses, and though I can’t see her I know she’s worrying her lip. “Maybe we can do it when we get back to Oahu? On the beach?” I laugh, loud and joyful, and she shushes me with a kiss.

There’s nothing quite like the adrenaline rush of survival to charge the sex hormones. I have her pinned underneath me in a heartbeat. She’s shimmying out of her shorts before I even get the scratchy blanket positioned over us. And though she’s shy, almost pure, when it comes to sex, she has no compulsion about taking me in hand tonight, guiding me in despite the five other people in very close proximity.

I can’t go slow, not lust-crazed and adrenaline-soaked as we are. My hand clamps tightly over her mouth as I drive into her, panting filth in her ear. The blanket falls away when she wraps her legs tightly around my waist, spurring me deeper. Even with my hand in place she’s so loud when she comes that there’s no doubt someone heard.

I couldn’t care less.

We’re alive. We’re together. We're getting married. 

* * *

The little boat bobs in the ocean for another day and night, listing ominously. There’s enough drinking water and dried food rations, but tempers flare. I’m so sick of Effie Howell-Hawthorne I’m ready to swim back to Hawaii just to escape.

At dawn, there’s a thump and an enormous shudder that threatens to rip the ship in two.

Land.

I’m rethinking the swimming to Hawaii part as the skipper and first mate plunge into the water. But it turns out it’s only chest deep.

A beach spreads before us, pristine white, fringed with tall palms. Behind that, jungle, deep and dark. Undeveloped. It might be the most gorgeous place I’ve ever seen. And after some 40 hours on a boat I’m so happy to be on terra firma I could almost weep.

Maybe we should be gathering driftwood to make a signal fire, trying to salvage nautical charts or compasses from the disabled boat. Instead we simply sit in the shallows. Seven stranded castaways, here on Finnick’s Isle…


	20. Hope in the Little Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little canon post MJ slice of life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Tumblr D12Drabbles prompt 'Hope.'
> 
> A mon amie Florence, et les autres amis en France et autour du monde: Tant qu’il y a de la vie, il y a de l’espoir…

* * *

 

It’s another bad day in a string of bad days.

In the eighteen months since the end of the war, Katniss and I have struggled to regain some sense of ourselves, to heal and grow and build a life, both separately and together.

It hasn’t been easy. Every step forward has been followed by a shuffle back, every bit of trust gained has come with a price. But every piece of herself that she’s given me is real. Every speck of our relationship, the good and the bad, all of it is real. There are no cameras anymore.

And I have hope that eventually the good days will outnumber the bad.

We’re working on our memory book tonight, at the low table in the living room of the house that used to be mine, but is now ours. It’s been a slow process, putting stories to paper. Every page brings pain. But each entry brings joy too. Remembering. Commemorating. Celebrating.

It’s Rue’s page lying on the table between us. Katniss, being Katniss, refuses to admit that she’s already struggling. Refuses to consider that there might be a better time to tackle this very difficult topic. She can be stubborn.

Stubborn, and glorious, and giving, and loving. And mine.

As the minutes pass I can practically see her retreating inside her own head, see the light in her eyes flicker and fade. “Katniss, we don’t have to do this now,” I remind her, gently.

It’s a testament to the progress we’ve made that she doesn’t storm away. And it’s a gift that she turns to me, her walls down. That she lets me see her sorrow, her vulnerability.

“I couldn’t save Rue,” she whispers. “And I couldn’t… I couldn’t save Prim. It was all for nothing Peeta.” Her voice breaks and the tears overflow. I pull her into my arms, hold her close and let her cry. Deep, heart-wrenching sobs shake her small body. I don’t shush her, don’t offer false platitudes. This is her pain, her grief. All I can do is hold her and be here for her, so I do and I am, always. I keep my arms wrapped tightly around her and rock her gently as she cries herself out. We sit together for a long time afterwards, not speaking, just clinging to each other on the couch, gentles kisses, soft caresses. Comfort. 

Finally I stand and reach for her hand. She takes it and I lead her up the stairs. We climb into bed fully clothed and drop off to sleep quickly, nestled together, her ear over my heart.

She wakes twice in the night, screaming, crying for Prim, crying for Rue, both times I’m there for her, holding her, rocking her, stroking her hair and calming her back to sleep. Just like she’s here for me on my bad days.

* * *

 

I wake with the dawn; Katniss is still asleep, curled in my arms. In the early light I can see the dried tracks of her tears on her cheeks and my heart breaks for her. She carries so much guilt for her part in the revolution and the war, even though none of it was by her choice. I decide that I won’t get up to bake this morning; instead I lie quietly, watching her sleep. She looks so young in repose, almost like a child herself; fragile and beautiful, but even in sleep her sadness is evident.

It’s a couple of hours past dawn when she finally awakens, looking confused. “It’s late,” she blurts. I chuckle.

“Yup.” I offer, “I didn’t want to wake you.” She looks like she’s considering this, then nods. “Do you have plans for today?” She shakes her head, brows furrowed slightly. “Well then,” I continue, “How about I make you some breakfast, then if you’re up for it I’d like to take you somewhere.”

“Okay.” She says it tentatively, and it sounds like a question. I just smile and kiss her forehead before climbing out of bed. Glancing back at her as I leave the room, I can see she’s staring blankly at the wall, and I know she’s on the precipice of falling into one of her depressive spells. I can only hope that what I’m planning helps.

It seems like a pancake day, it’s hard to be sad with fluffy fruit-studded treats on the plate. I’m expecting to have to drag Katniss out of bed, as is generally the case when she’s in a mood like this, but she surprises me by appearing soundlessly behind me just as I’m finishing with the cooking. She lays out plates while I pour tea and set out butter and jam. We eat in silence, Katniss lost in her thoughts, me watching her carefully. She does eat, at least a little, which is a positive sign.

I wash up the dishes quickly. Katniss sits on the couch with her knees drawn up under her chin, arms wrapped tightly around herself, the memory book still open. When I kneel in front of her and look into her eyes they’re dull with pain and misery. I stand and hold my hand out to her. She takes it, but when I start to lead her toward the door she stops. “I don’t really want to go anywhere today, Peeta,” she says softly.

I squeeze her hand reassuringly. “I know, but I need to show you something, and it isn’t very far.”  She wrinkles her nose and her jaw tenses, like she’s going to start arguing, but I flash her my very best sad puppy face and her eyes soften. She relents and follows me out the door.

The walk into town doesn’t take that long. We’re both silent, and Katniss holds my hand tightly. I lead her away from the town center with all of its construction noise and dust and workers everywhere, stopping instead near the recently rebuilt school. It’s about ten minutes before classes start, so the school yard is full of children. Not as many as before the war, of course, but there are more than 50 school-aged children in the district now, and virtually all of them are playing here right now in the bright May sunshine.

“Why are we here Peeta?” She sounds annoyed.

“Just look, Katniss. Just look.” We stand together silently, watching. The children are oblivious to our presence. They run and shriek and laugh with abandon. They climb trees and dance. I can even faintly hear some singing. Their joy is palpable. There is no longer any Seam/Merchant division in District 12, all of the children intermingle on the school yard, blond heads and darker ones together. And unlike before, none of these children are starving. None are living in fear.

The school bell rings and the kids begin to move towards the building. I turn to Katniss and say, softly, “You saved them. You saved all of them, Katniss.” Her eyes widen, bottomless. “None of these children will ever be reaped, because of you. They’re not hungry, because of you. They have a future. They can grow up without fear, without oppression. It wasn’t for nothing Katniss. We have to believe that.”

She turns to watch the last stragglers file in. When the door closes behind the last child, she turns back to me again. Her eyes glitter with unshed tears. I wrap my arms around her and she lays her head against my chest. She whispers simply, “Thank you.”

My heart is pounding under her ear; it’s difficult sometimes for me too, despite my innate optimism, to see the positives that came from the war, from the rebellion that we inadvertently sparked. “When things get too hard, when I’m sure I can never be happy again, I think of these children, and about all of the children living in all of the other districts,” I say softly into her hair. “They give me hope.” My voice is wavering with emotion. Her arms squeeze tightly around my waist.

“Let’s go home Peeta.”


	21. Choose Happy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A reimagining of a canon scene from Catching Fire, nights on the train.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A reimagining of a canon scene from Catching Fire. As such, there is dialogue directly lifted from the book which, of course, does not belong to me. For the Tumblr D12Drabble prompt: dreams.

The water stretches out in front of me, an almost endless silver sheet, twinkling in the moonlight. I wonder; if I swam to where the horizon is swallowed by the inky sky, would it swallow me too?

“Penny for your thoughts.” I didn’t hear him walk up behind me, the soft sand muffled his heavy footfalls. But I can feel his presence, the heat that emanates from his broad chest as he stands behind me, only a whisper away.

“Nothing you’d want to know,” I tell him, but I’m smiling. He moves closer still, until he’s pressed against my back, one strong arm snaking around me, holding me snug. I practically melt into his embrace; it feels so good I know I won’t be the first to pull away.

Earlier, my prep team had piled my hair on top of my head in an elaborate updo. Appropriate for the party the mayor of District Four hosted, to celebrate our Games win. One of many we’ve attended on our Victory Tour. But by now, long tendrils have escaped and blow across my face in the steady ocean breeze. Peeta chuckles at my attempts to restrain them, I can feel his laughter in my own body. When I huff in frustration, he presses his lips against my temple and I sigh. I wrap my hands around his forearm, holding him against myself. Steady.

His lips trail downward, grazing the shell of my ear before landing on a spot just below that makes me tremble. This is new. I turn my head to look at him; he nuzzles my cheek with his nose. “What?” he laughs. I shrug.

“Feels nice,” I mumble, warmth flooding my face. His answering smile is radiant.

“Good,” he says softly, spinning me to face him. “Let me make you feel nice, Katniss.”

His lips descend, capture my own, a gentle exploration. I’ve kissed Peeta a hundred times, in the Games, and at every stop along the tour so far. But this is the first time we’ve kissed without the cameras. The difference is immediately apparent. Only once before has a kiss felt like this. That was in our cave, high on survival. We were so close then. Happy, almost. I wish I’d realized that it was real for him.

I wish I’d understood my own feelings.

Peeta pulls back abruptly. His hands slide up my arms, cradle my face. Force me to look at him. Have his eyes always been so warm? “You’re thinking too much,” he says. “Just feel.”

So I do.

He kisses me again. I have only a moment to wonder just how he got so good at it before my mind is wiped blank by the first swipe of his tongue. This is new.

This is nice.

Gentle exploration rapidly intensifies. I don’t really know what I’m doing but it doesn’t seem to matter. All of it is incredible. Warmth flares in my chest, spreads through my whole body, igniting a hunger I’ve never known.

My hands clutch at Peeta, clumsy and desperate. His are so much more sure. He deftly caresses my face, my back, my waist. He stokes the fire in my belly… and lower.

When he pulls away I chase him, lips tingling, hungry for more. But he merely holds me, rocking gently on the sand, a moonlit dance to the music of our shallow breaths. “How do you feel now?” he breathes, and the deep, lusty timbre of his voice makes me throb.

“Happy,” I tell him, and it’s the truth. In this moment, here, now; I’m happy.

He smiles. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted,” he says. “For you to be happy. To be able to make you happy,” he clarifies. I think about what Haymitch said earlier, that I could do worse than Peeta, and my own realization that I really couldn’t do any better.

“It might not be our choice,” he says, and I know he’s talking about our engagement, or maybe our inevitable marriage. The one I’m practically forcing him into. Shame floods me, but as if he can read my mind his arms tighten, pull me into a hug. I tuck my face into the crook of his neck and inhale him, cinnamon and musk.

His hands are roaming again, soothing, comforting. “But it can be what we want it to be,” he continues, the words for my ears only. “We can be happy, if we choose to be. Do you want to be happy, Katniss? Do you want to feel good?”

“Yes,” I admit. Whatever this is, I want more. He chuckles, but it sounds wrong, like he’s far away.

I pull back, open my eyes. The air around us starts to shimmer, and I panic. The crashing of the waves recedes, replaced by the clackety-clack of the train. District Four disappears into the past. We left the ocean a week ago, rationally I know that. I’m standing in darkness. “No,” I whimper. “Don’t go!”

“I’m not going anywhere, Katniss,” he says, but already he’s fading into the mist. “I’m right beside you.”

“Peeta!” I call. But he’s gone. It was only a dream.

I open my eyes slowly, the last vestiges of my dream cradling me, surrounding me like a warm hug. Beautiful, but tinged with melancholy. It’s early afternoon. My head rests on Peeta’s right arm, his left is wrapped around me snugly. Right beside me, just like he said.

I turn, being careful not to disturb him, but he’s already awake, staring at me with adoration. Just like in my dream. For a few moments I lose myself in those soft pools of blue.

“No nightmares,” he says.

“What?” I ask, snapped out of my reverie.

“You didn’t have any nightmares last night,” he clarifies.

“I had a dream, though,” I say, without thinking. He raises an eyebrow, a silent request to continue. I flush, certain he can see in my face what our dream selves did. “I - uh. I was following a mockingjay through the woods. For a long time.” That seems safe, believable despite how bad a liar I am. I can’t meet his eyes, settling instead on watching his lips, quirked upwards in an amused little smirk. “It was Rue, really. I mean, when it sang, it had her voice.”

“Where did she take you?” he asks, brushing my hair off my forehead, his fingers lingering just a little.

“I don’t know. We never arrived,” I say. “But I felt happy.” It’s the only truth I can give him.

“Well, you slept like you were happy,” he says.

I know from Effie’s itinerary that the train will be pulling into District 12 just before nightfall. The last stop on our Victory Tour. And I know that things will change yet again when we get there. But maybe dream-Peeta is right. Maybe, as a team, we can carve out a little slice of happy.

I shuffle a little closer to Peeta, rest my head on his shoulder. He makes a surprised little noise, but then wraps his arms around me, pulling me in tighter. I don’t know what’s going to happen when we get home. But for right now, just this one moment on a train hurtling towards an unknown future, I choose happy.


	22. Frosting Under Heavy Guard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A canon-complaint - but invented - scene in Mockingjay. Takes place after Annie and Finnick's wedding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written for the reTHG Tumblr re-read of the Hunger Games trilogy. As part of our discussion of Chapters 15 and 16, this little bit of word vomit emerged. Rated G.

_Most of the guests back up, making way for this rarity, this dazzling creation with blue-green, white-tipped icing waves swimming with fish and sailboats, seals and sea flowers. But I push my way through the crowd to confirm what I knew at first sight. As surely as the embroidery stitches in Annie’s gown were done by Cinna’s hand, the frosted flowers on the cake were done by Peeta’s._

**–Mockingjay, Chapter 16.**

* * *

 

I drag myself out of my warm hiding spot, behind a pipe in the laundry room, and stagger down the dim corridors to our family compartment. The lights are off; my mother’s shift at the hospital doesn’t start for another two hours. She and Prim are curled up together, blond and silver strands mingling on the pillow. Peaceful.

A peace and comfort I’ll never again have.

As I climb into my bunk I almost squash it. There, in the middle of my bed, sitting on a paper napkin is a slice of cake. I have no idea how anyone snuck it out of Finnick and Annie’s reception; food hoarding is a punishable crime in Thirteen. And yet, there is it, a brilliant slice of blue-green, contrasting with the scratchy grey bedsheets, glowing in the thin emergency light.

I haven’t tasted the cake yet. After speaking with Haymitch, after confirming that the confectionery masterpiece was made by Peeta’s hands, my stomach had been in knots.

Then I spoke with Peeta for the first time since he tried to kill me. Well, no. For this first time since the arena, really. And everything I had held so tightly for all of these months shattered.

I may never want to eat again.

I reach for the cake, intending on setting it aside for Prim, but something catches my eye. A shell. Or, rather, a half shell, severed by a careless serving knife. But not a fancy shell, like so many of the other frosting creations. This one is blue-greyish, lumpy. 

Familiar.

I drag the cake off my bed and hold it close to the emergency lighting. And my suspicions are confirmed. It’s an oyster shell, made of sugar, painstakingly painted. A replica of the ones we shared in the Quell. Out of place among the vividly coloured shells and sea flowers. But not obviously so. It feels like a hidden message. Just for me.

My traitorous heart leaps, and with a ragged thumbnail I pry up the edge of the little sugar shell, irrationally expecting to find a tiny replica of my pearl.

But there’s nothing underneath.

It wasn’t a message to me. Peeta’s only message to me is that he hates me now.

I toss the cake in the trash.


	23. A Pale Imitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the Tumblr D12Drabbles prompt "Caught red-handed". This chapter is rated T.

My head is pounding. I don’t get headaches like this very often. When I do, I have no choice but to go home and sleep it off.

I know it’s stress. I’ve been putting in far too many hours at the bakery I own lately. Going in early, staying late. Working through meals. I’ve barely had a home life at all in months.

Maybe the headache is a blessing. I’ll go home, have a hot shower. Take a nap. And hopefully then feel well enough to make dinner for Katniss. It will be the first time in far too long. 

I used to cook for her - for us - all of the time when we were first married. But since opening my bakery, so many things have fallen by the wayside. And I miss her. So much.

I’m kind of lost in ruminating when I pull up to my house. But the sight of Katniss’s car in the driveway startles me. It’s only early afternoon; she shouldn’t be home from work for a few hours yet. And though I only spoke briefly with her this morning, as I was rushing out the door, I’m pretty sure she didn’t mention anything about coming home early.

Or I don’t think she did. But I guess I wasn’t paying much attention. I haven’t been paying attention a lot lately. I hope she’s okay. I glance down at my phone as I turn off the ignition. No messages.

The front door is unlocked. I push it open quietly, in case she’s sleeping. It’s not like Katniss to be home during the day. Not like her at all. And something about the whole situation makes me wary. Edgy.

The house is warm and dim, the curtains drawn against the day. And there’s a scent, both familiar and wrong. So wrong. It confuses me, almost overwhelms me.

From the kitchen, a soft giggle, and then a sigh of pleasure. My heart plummets into my shoes. What the hell?

I’m not capable of walking quietly, and yet somehow she doesn’t hear my approach. She’s leaning against the granite counter, head tipped back, eyes closed. The expression of utter bliss on her face at once soothes and inflames me.

And beside her, _him_. The one we’ve argued about before, with his wide blue eyes and round cheeks. With his insipid little smirk, aimed in my direction now, taunting me, fake and repugnant. The one I’ve insisted never be allowed into my home again.

I’m shocked she can’t hear my teeth grinding. My fists open and close, open and close. Finally, I clear my throat, interrupting her rapture.

Her head snaps up, fear and horror in her eyes. “Pee-fa,” she mumbles around a mouthful of faux-dough and cardboard cheese, shuffling to shield the baking pan from my eyes with her body. “Oor ome earry!”

I reach past her to pick the empty tube from the counter, stray bits of bland beige biscuit batter clinging to the packaging. “Katniss,” I whine. “You’re cheating on Mellark’s with the Pillsbury Doughboy?”

She shrugs, pouting and yet somehow unapologetic, looking like a little girl caught with her hand in the cookie jar. “I just needed cheese buns, okay?” she mumbles. “Haven’t had them in forever. And I didn’t want to bother you at the bakery ‘cause you’ve been so busy.”

I can’t contain the laughter that bubbles up. She scowls, but then her expression softens as I hold my arms out to her. “Katniss,” I say between chuckles. “My love, I’m sorry I haven’t made you cheese buns lately.” I kiss her hair as she melts into me. “Come have a nap with me,” I plead, anxious to hold her, to reconnect and recharge and just be together. “And after, I’ll make you real cheese buns. Okay?”

She smiles, that soft, sweet smile that she saves only for me. And I drag her off to our bedroom.

But first I toss those sorry excuses for cheese buns in the trash.

 

 

[](http://i.cubeupload.com/cfqEhu.png)


	24. Welcome Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is rated E for language and explicit sexual content. It is unabashedly smut without substance, PWP. :) Reader discretion is advised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the Tumblr D12Drabbles prompt: suitcase

Peeta’s flight had been delayed four times. Originally scheduled to land at 8 pm, it was nearly two in the morning when he finally exited the flying tin can. He expected that he’d have to call an über, flying in this late. But she was there, standing in the concourse, looking exhausted and anxious, the sickly airport lighting illuminating her like a beacon of hope.

When she caught sight of him her entire face lit up, and in a flash she was running toward him on light, soundless feet. He dropped his carry on and scooped her up, spinning her, laughing. His beautiful Katniss. “You’re back,” she said over and over, between gentle kisses that quickly grew heated.

Twelve days. He’d been away for twelve long days. Twelve mornings where he couldn’t kiss her awake. Twelve endless nights with only her voice and his lubricant-slick hand for company. It was too long. Far, far too long.

She curled into his side, clinging as they stumbled and staggered to the baggage carousel. He could scarcely control himself, murmuring in her ear all of the things he wanted to do to her. All of the ways he wanted to love her.

Katniss blushed at the filth he was panting. She was so shy, so pure, embarrassed by his sex talk despite his hushed tones and the emptiness of the small regional airport. It had taken years before she’d even kiss him in public. And he loved that about her, he truly did. But teasing her with his words and wandering fingers was one of his favourite things to do.

By the time the few pieces of luggage had been pulled from the plane and deposited on the rotating belt he had her worked into a frenzy, describing in low tones every erotic thing he was going to do to her once he got her home, every lurid detail of how he was going to make her come. Plying her with kisses. Hands sneaking under her clothing, grabbing her ass and cupping her breasts even as she slapped them away. She was flushed and flustered and more than a little irritated.

She took charge of his oversized suitcase, though it weighed more than half what she did, pulling it from the conveyor effortlessly, snapping the handle up and towing it - and him - through the deserted corridors towards the parking garage. He followed, a little chastened, but mostly amused. She was a firebrand and her anger was almost as much of a turn on as her sweet ass swaying just in front of him.

Until they got to the garage.

The empty parkade echoed with his heavy footfalls, the clackety-clack of his ponderous suitcase, and the little huffs of annoyance that escaped her as she marched him toward their car. There was an apology on his lips when she stopped beside their SUV, dropping his hand and turning abruptly. He had only a moment to admire the fire that raged in her quicksilver eyes before she’d grabbed the front of his jacket and spun him around, using his surprise to push him roughly against the car door.

His eyes widened in shock. “Katniss, I-” he started, but she cut him off.

“Shut up, Peeta,” she muttered before she pulled him down for a bruising kiss. Confusion was immediately overridden by lust as her tongue demanded his full attention. He was happy to oblige.

But when he reached for her she pulled back, grabbing his arms, forcing them against the car just firmly enough to startle him, to tell him she was serious. “Katniss?” he breathed.

“Do you think that was fair, Peeta,” she growled, even as she cupped his rapidly hardening dick through his slacks. His eyes rolled back in his head. “Do you?” She squeezed and his eyes shot open.

“What?” he grunted, the pique in her words so at odds with her hand stroking him exactly the way she knew he liked.

“Teasing me like that? After you left me alone for twelve days,” she said, leaning in to suck at the pulse that leapt in his throat. “Twelve days without your arms, or you hands or your lips.” She was moaning the words into the stubble-flecked flesh. “Or your cock.”

The multiple layers of sensation - her hand rubbing him just right, her tongue and teeth teasing his jaw, that filthy word falling so unexpectedly from her sweet mouth - put him right on the edge. Shit, if she didn’t stop he was going to come in his slacks like a thirteen-year-old. But just as he moved his hands to grab her arm she pulled back again, and he groaned. “Put your hands against the car, Peeta,” she demanded.

He did as she asked, one hand curling around the door handle, the other resting on the hood. She tugged on his pants, undoing his belt and popping the button. He gasped as her hand, small and soft and just a little cool, plunged into his shorts and gripped his aching cock. “Holy shit, Katniss,” he groaned. “What’s gotten into you?”

She looked up at him, wild-eyed and feral, wisps of jet-black hair floating around her face like smoke. “You don’t like being teased, Peeta?” she smirked. “You don’t think turnabout is fair play?” She didn’t let him answer, winding her fingers through his tousled waves, pulling until their lips met again, all the while stroking his cock firmly, making him grunt against her lips each time her thumb skated over the head.

He was certain she was going to drive him to the brink of insanity, then leave him hanging. Payback for all of the taunting he’d done. “Please, baby,” he begged, breathless. “Please. Let’s go home. I need you so fucking bad.”

“Peeta,” she breathed, her nose against his. Their eyes locked. “Shut up.” Her fist tightened in his hair just briefly, making his dick jump. Then both of her hands fell away and she stepped back.

He whimpered.

She grinned at him, at the sight he made slumped against their car, rumpled and flushed. Then she dropped to her knees. “Katniss?” he squeaked, tensing. She looked up at him through thick black lashes, licking her lips as she pulled him from his trousers, hot and rock hard.

He was dreaming. He was still on that damned flying sardine can, somewhere over Topeka, and any minute more turbulence would jolt him awake. Because there was no way this could be real. No way his reserved, PDA-allergic girlfriend could be kneeling in front of him in a public garage. “Katniss?” he whispered again.

She paused, her breath hot on his throbbing cock, her mouth hovering inches from where he wanted her so badly. He didn’t miss the way she glanced sideways, just briefly. Just enough to ensure that the giant suitcase mostly blocked her from the view of anyone who might drive by. “Peeta,” she said softly, her voice just a little tremulous. “Shut up.” And then she descended, taking him into the slick, wet heat of her mouth.

He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t blink, frozen in place, watching his gorgeous girlfriend kiss and lick and suck him, her hand moving in time with her mouth. It wasn’t the first time Katniss had blown him, far from it. But she had never, ever done it where someone might see. Hell, she didn’t even like leaving the lights on when they had sex!

As if she sensed his confusion, his unease, she looked up at him, hooded eyes twinkling mischievously in the dim. And he relaxed a little, let himself simply enjoy the unexpected, incredibly erotic experience.

She knew him, knew what he liked, knew exactly how to drive him crazy. His head fell back against the car and he moaned softly as her tongue tickled the sensitive underside of his crown, making his balls tighten, sending shockwaves down his spine. When she pulled ever so gently on his sack he lost the battle to keep his hands to himself.

She didn’t swat his hands away when he buried them in her hair, humming her approval around his erection. He couldn’t resist thrusting, just a little, into her hot mouth. It was bliss, pure and simple. “Katniss,” he panted. “Love, I’m gonna, oh fuck. I’m gonna come.” It was a warning she didn’t bother heeding, speeding her pace a little, gripping his ass.

His orgasm overtook him so hard, so fast, he couldn’t contain his howl of pleasure, her name echoing off the cement garage walls. She stiffened a little at the noise, but didn’t stop, swallowing everything he had, suckling him until he softened.

He pulled her to her feet, engulfing her in a tight hug. “Thank you, thank you,” he panted over and over as he caught his breath, calmed his racing heart. Katniss kissed his cheek, nuzzled him affectionately.

When he could breathe, he let his hands wander again, to those luscious tits, hiding under her plain t-shirt. But she slapped his hand away. He gave her such an incredulous look that she burst out laughing. “That suitcase isn’t big enough to hide the both of us.” She stepped away and he pouted. Her smile was coquettish. “I’ll drive and you can tell me all of the things you’re going to do when we get home.” Peeta grinned, but his eyes were heavy, the aftereffects of his release combined with ten hours of travelling across two times zones taking its toll. She snickered. “If you can stay awake,” she murmured.


	25. Oblivious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peeta Mellark is always rescuing his long time best friend Katniss from uncomfortable situations.
> 
> Written for @deinde-prandium AKA amelinazenitram (AmelinaZenitram) on the Tumblr blog @everlarkbirthdaydrabbles. This chapter is rated T for language and sexual situations.

He’s got her backed against the bar, right up in her personal space, and even from here I can see the wild, panicked look in her eyes.

 

I finish the rest of my beer before I saunter over. There’s no real rush. He’s not a serial killer. And she’s not in any danger. No, Katniss Everdeen, my best friend of more than a decade, can handle any threats to her physical safety just fine.

 

What she can’t handle is being flirted with.

 

Even if the redhead smiling down at her with stars in his eyes is completely harmless, the minute someone gives Katniss any indication that they’re an iota interested in her beyond friendship, she balks. If Red hadn’t bracketed her in, she’d have run off like a bat out of-

 

“Hello, Sweetheart,” I say, having reached Katniss and her erstwhile paramour by now. “I wondered where you’d gotten off to.” I slide myself neatly between them, curling an arm around her waist. Her eyes soften and her lips turn up in a little smirk.

 

“I was waiting for you, of course,” she breathes, low and husky. My dick twitches a little at her words, even if I know she doesn’t mean them.

 

See, I’ve been in love with Katniss nearly half my life. But I've never told her. I've seen her deer-in-the-headlights response far too often to ever risk having it aimed at me. Nope, I content myself with just being her best friend. Loving her from afar. I know someday she'll find a man who won't make her want to run away. And that day will likely break me.

 

But I can't change how I feel. Lord knows I've tried.

 

“Hey, uh,” Red starts behind me, and I roll my eyes. Katniss smirks again, her eyes glittering with mischief. She stands up on her toes, looping her arms around my neck, pressing her face into the hollow of my throat. Warmth radiates from where her lips just graze my skin. And I can't help it; I clutch her tightly to me, one hand snaking up to tangle in the raven cloud of her hair. I love it when she wears it down like this.

 

There's a little grunt of annoyance from behind me, and the sound of steps shuffling away. But I don't release Katniss. And she continues to cling to me.

 

It's moments like these that feed my daydreams.

 

She sighs, lifts her head just enough to meet my eyes. “Thanks, Peeta,” she says. Her fingers absently toy with my hair and it takes all of my restraint not to groan.

 

“No problem,” I murmur, making to step away. But her arms tighten. Her soft breasts press against my chest, her pine-sweet breath ghosts over my chin, caresses my lips. Blunt fingernails drag along the back of my scalp.

 

She has no idea, the effect she has. But if I don't pull away soon she's going to get a strong indication…

 

She frowns when I remove her hands from around my neck; I kiss each softly to lessen the sting.

 

Her frown deepens and she steps away, pulling her hands from mine and wrapping her arms around herself protectively. I recognize her annoyance, though I'm not certain what I've done to cause it.

 

I glance around the bar. Red is chatting up a woman with spiky hair and facial piercings now. I elbow Katniss gently and tip my head in his direction. “Guess he's not too broken up,” I joke, hoping to ease the odd tension between us. She cracks a half smile. “Will you call another fake-boyfriend to intervene if I buy you a drink?” I tease.

 

At that she laughs. “You know you're my one and only, Mellark.” I wrap my arm around her shoulder and ignore the pang in my chest.

 

* * *

 

 

We order a round, and then another, and then another. All the while, she kicks my ass at darts. “All right, all right, I give up!” I laugh, dragging Katniss away to let someone else take over the board. She pouts; I want to bite that lip so badly I can feel it in my gut.

 

“Will you walk me home?” she asks. Like I’d ever say no.

 

We head out into the summer night hand in hand. We laugh and chat, and when she shivers a little I wrap my arm around her, tucking her into the warmth of my body. She fits perfectly against me.

 

Her apartment is a third floor walk up. Technically, she has a roommate, but I haven’t seen Madge in months, she's all but living with her boyfriend. Tonight is no exception, everything is dark and quiet. “Stay awhile,” she implores.

 

We have another drink, lounge on her sofa. She leans on my shoulder, I play with her hair. I never feel more content than I do when I'm with Katniss.

 

But then the conversation turns to tonight's cast-off suitor wannabe. “He seemed nice, we were talking about the Rangers, and then all of a sudden he was asking me to come back to his place.” I chuckle at her description; I watched them for more than half an hour before I intervened. He was about as subtle as a brick. But Katniss was, as always, completely clueless.

 

I point that out to her, remind her that it happens nearly every single time we go out together. She scowls. “That's not true,” she insists.

 

“Katniss,” I groan. “All of those guys practically fell all over themselves to get your attention. You are just completely oblivious!” I scrub my hand across my face in frustration. She snorts derisively.

 

“Hello, Pot. I'm Kettle,” she mocks.

 

I drop my hands and glance over at her in confusion. “Are you seriously calling me oblivious, Katniss? Seriously?” I can't even be pissed about it, it's just so ridiculous.

 

“If the shoe fits,” she challenges, climbing off the couch to stand in front of me, staring me down.

 

“What are you even talking about? _I’m_ oblivious? How do you think I always know when you need rescuing from those guys, Katniss? I see everything!”

 

“Okay, first off, I don’t need _rescuing_ , Peeta,” she snaps, her voice rising in irritation. I beg to differ on that point, but I hold my tongue. “And second? No, you don’t. You don’t see what’s been in front of your face for years!” As soon as she says it, before I’ve even comprehended the words, she blanches.

 

“What do you mean,” I ask, standing slowly. But she’s already backing away, that familiar cornered wild animal look in her mercury eyes.

 

“Nothing,” she grumbles. “Forget about it. I’m going to bed.” She turns, but I jump up, grabbing her arm before she can flee.

 

“No.” My heart is hammering so hard it feels like it’s going to burst right out of my chest. I twist her around to face me, she keeps her eyes stubbornly averted, staring at my chest. But she’s trembling. “Please,” I say much more softly. “Please Katniss.”

 

I pull her into my arms and she doesn’t resist, her fingers curling in my shirt, right over my heart. But she still won’t look at me. I tilt her face up. She’s chewing on her bottom lip, liquid silver eyes flashing with uncertainty. “What did you mean, Katniss?” I stroke her cheek as I wait. Her eyes close, thick black lashes brush against flushed cheeks. She leans into my hand just enough to make me sure.

 

All of those little touches, all of the times she held me just a bit too long. All of the things I brushed off, backed away from because I was too afraid to see them for what they were. My breath escapes in a little half laugh. “Fine,” I tell her. “I’ll start. I have been in love with you almost as long as I’ve known you.” Her hands tighten, clutching my shirt. “And I've been too chicken shit to tell you.”

 

She doesn't say anything, only looks at me with eyes wide and wary, waiting. I lean in, stopping just a hair's breadth from her lips.

 

She closes the gap.

 

In more than a decade of friendship, I thought I'd learned pretty much everything there is to know about Katniss. I know she loves walking in the woods, mushrooms on her pizza and stealing my t-shirts to use as pyjamas. I know her favourite colour, how much she adores her sister and that she cries at movies and even sometimes over commercials. She's tough as nails on the outside, tender on the inside. But until this moment, I had no idea how incredible her lips would feel against my own.

 

At the first tentative swipe of my tongue her lips part, inviting me to explore. She mewls and whimpers, her hands again find their way into my hair. This time I don't pull back. As I kiss her I let her feel the full force of my desire for her, pressing against her soft belly. She responds by biting my lip and I reflexively rut against her.

 

She pulls back so quickly it startles me, but then she’s tugging me to the couch, pulling me down until she’s lying underneath me.

 

So many times, so many times I’ve dreamed about this moment. Fantasized about having Katniss squirming and mewling underneath me, looking up at me with those mercury eyes. I almost can’t believe it’s real. But she arches up, kissing me furiously, wrapping her arms around me like a vice, and I’m surrounded by her. The softness of her skin under my wandering fingers as I edge her shirt slowly up. The way her lean calves grip my thighs tightly, pressing us together. The evocative scent of her; shampoo and gin and arousal. My name in her voice, flowing through my head, banishing any form of inhibition.

 

Until her hand slides between us, stroking my erection through my jeans.

 

For a moment, for one blissful moment, I simply enjoy the sensation. But then the part of me who loves Katniss, the part that avoided telling her for years in fear that if I did I would lose her, that part of me rears his cautious head. Everything is moving too fast; we’ve both had a lot to drink, and I can’t be Katniss Everdeen’s drunken mistake. “Katniss,” I groan, nearly rendered speechless by the pressure of her small hand on my aching cock, even through my jeans. Nearly sidetracked by imagining how incredible it would feel without the denim between our flesh.

 

But I need to know. “Stop, please,” I beg, pulling at her hand. Lust chokes my voice, making it nearly unrecognizable. But she understands, stiffening underneath me.

 

“I thought,” she whispers, and then she's shoving me, trying to run. But there's no way I'm going to let that happen. I know her too well.

 

“Katniss.” My voice is soft, a plea. She stills, looking at me with confusion in those incredible eyes. “Please, I.. we need to slow down. I don't want to fuck this up.” A hint of a smile teases her lips.

 

“I'm not going to change my mind, Peeta,” she murmurs. She knows me so well. And those words, fuck, my self control is hanging on by a thread.

 

I lean in and kiss her, just lightly. A promise. “I want you so much,” I admit, resting my forehead against hers. “But… can I take you on a date first?”

 

Her arms slide back around my neck, her eyes flit back and forth, searching mine. Silence hangs between us. “Breakfast,” she says.

 

“What?”

 

“You can take me out for breakfast.” She smiles, like dawn breaking, banishing the shadows of uncertainty. “That place on Arena, with the chocolate fondue.” And I laugh.

 

She leans in to kiss me again, languidly. We kiss and touch, chastely, fingers on napes and cheeks, tangled in hair. Making out with my best friend, my favourite person in the world.

 

Finally she eases away, climbing off the couch and offering me a hand. “Let's go to bed,” she sighs. I stiffen, but before I can argue she clarifies. “Just to sleep.” She looks at me, her expression one I never thought I'd see. She squeezes my hand. “I'm not ready to let you go just yet,” she admits.

 

“I'm not going anywhere,” I say, following her to the bedroom. And we crawl into her bed together, fully clothed.

 

Her head settles on my chest, right over my heart. I stroke her hair, her shoulders, the sinuous curve of her spine. We’ve slept together before, inadvertently. On her couch after a movie night. On teenaged camping trips. Even on Finnick’s dorm bed once. But this is different. This is intentional. Intimate. Incredible.

 

I can feel her drifting to sleep, and I'm desperate to follow. But first I need to be sure.

 

“Katniss?” I whisper. “You love me, real or not real?” She lifts her head, resting her chin against my sternum, soft silver eyes locking onto mine.

 

“Real,” she smiles. “My one and only.”


	26. Pet Names

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing but fluff. Written for @peetabreadgirl from the prompt: "I need to choose a pet name for you. Any ideas?"

“I need to choose a pet name for you. Any ideas?” Peeta snickered at his girlfriend’s reaction to his question, a familiar scowl sliding into place across her gorgeous features. He knew all-too-well how much she hated nicknames. But teasing Katniss Everdeen had been his favourite pastime since high school. **  
**

“I need a pet name just about as much as you need a kick in the ass, Peeta,” she grunted, rolling away from him. It was a quiet Sunday morning and they’d been basking in post-orgasmic bliss before his impudent question. But he just laughed, reaching for her again, pulling her into the warmth of his arms. She melted into his embrace. He was a master at pushing her buttons in every way, and she could seldom manage to be angry or upset with him for more than a moment.

“Just think about it,” he murmured into her hair as his fingers traced designs along the curve of her spine. “It was cute when Rye called Leevy ‘Sweetpea’ last night.”

“It wasn’t cute,” she groaned. “It was excruciating.” They’d met Peeta’s brother’s new girlfriend the previous evening, and Peeta had been enchanted by how lovey-dovey they were with each other. Katniss, however, had just been uncomfortable with the blatant PDA.

“Clove calls Cato, ‘Loverboy’…”

“In your dreams,” she snickered.

“Sweetheart?”

“No.”

“Darling?”

“No, Peeta. Stop.”

“I heard Aunt Effie calling Haymitch ‘Sugar Lips’,” he laughed.

“No… wait, what? Really?”

“Yeah,” he laughed, and she joined in. Effie and their crusty old neighbour Haymitch. Who’d have guessed? “How about ‘Muffin’?”

“I knew you’d get around to the bakery puns eventually,” she groaned. “No.”

“Finnick calls Annie ‘Babycakes’…”

“I’d rip off your balls and feed them to you,” she grumbled. He shook with laughter, squeezing her more tightly, and she couldn’t resist joining in.

As their mirth faded away he kissed her softly, a promise of more. “I love you,” he sighed, and she smiled. “But there is one thing I’d really like to call you, Katniss,” he said, eyes twinkling. She rolled her own eyes, but then her breath caught as she watched him pull from beneath his pillow a small black velvet box.

“Peeta?” she whispered.

“I’d really like to call you ‘wife’,” he breathed. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes as he slid a simple diamond solitaire onto her slender finger, then kissed her tenderly.

She sighed her reply against his lips. “I’ll allow it.”


	27. Jealousy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You can't really understand another person until you've walked a mile in their shoes.
> 
> Or, danced in them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Modern AU. Written for the Tumblr blog @Everlarkbirthdaydrabbles, in response to the prompt: the smuttier, the better. This chapter is essentially PWP and is rated E

I should have seen it coming.

 

Every Thursday, I teach paint night at a chichi gastro pub. It's good money for very little work, and it’s fun. The ladies who take the class are usually more interested in drinking their wine and chatting than in actually painting, so I don't have to do much other than demonstrate and wander the easels, making approving noises. 

 

Cashmere Solomon is in the group again tonight. She's a little older, and a little handsy, one of those people who can't seem to have a conversation without clutching at the other person. 

 

I'm packing up my equipment, half listening to her prattle about some technique she saw on YouTube that she thinks I should teach next when I notice my girlfriend, Katniss standing just inside the doorway. Watching. 

 

With fire in her eyes. 

 

\---

 

The drive back to my apartment is silent, tense. But once we’re inside I turn to Katniss. “You're upset,” I say, flatly. It's not a question; she was pissed off the last time she picked me up from paint night too. 

 

“Of course I'm upset, that woman was all-fucking-over you -- again, Peeta!” She throws her hands in the air, scowling. And I only barely resist the urge to roll my eyes. This is the same damned argument we had last week. 

 

“It’s not like I was touching her back, okay? I didn’t do anything wrong here. This is your issue, Katniss. Not mine.”

 

“So if the tables were turned you wouldn’t have a problem with it?” she challenges.

 

“No. Because I trust you, Katniss.”

 

“This isn’t about fucking trust,” she yells. “If I sat there passively while some guy ran his hands over my body you wouldn’t mind?”

 

“Finnick does it all of the time, I never get upset.”

 

“That’s not the same thing at all, we’ve known Finnick since we were five.”

 

“And he’s a good looking man, and I never freak out or get jealous when he picks you up and spins you around.” She huffs, and I know I’ve won.

 

“Fine,” she says, her grey eyes glittering dangerously. She grabs her bag from beside my couch and heads for the door. My heart sinks. 

 

“Where are you going?” It comes out more whiny than I intend. I hate it when she runs away after an argument.

 

“I’m going home, Peeta. It’s almost ten and I have to work in the morning.” Katniss has plenty of clothing here. She sleeps here more often than at her own apartment, in fact. But her body language screams anger, so I don't plead with her to stay, in spite of the disappointment that floods my gut. She does let me approach her, at least. Lets me kiss her goodbye.

 

“Are you still going to come out with the gang tomorrow?” I murmur into her hair. A group of us are meeting at the bar, to celebrate Finn’s birthday. 

 

She sighs. “Yes, I promised I would.”

 

I regret the argument even before the door closes behind her. 

 

\---

 

_ I'll see you at Midnight _ . A single text message, the only contact we've had all day. Instead of coming over, or letting me pick her up, she'll instead meet me at the bar Finnick’s chosen, Midnight. 

 

I admit, I'm surprised when I get to the bar and find her there already. I wasn't sure she'd show. My heart lifts at the sight of her. She's wearing a dress tonight, short and clingy, it makes her legs look like they go on forever. Katniss is gorgeous, effortlessly so, though I’m not sure she realizes the effect she has. She's standing by the bar, and when she sees me, she smiles. And I relax a little. 

 

The night flies by. We have several tables packed with Finnick’s friends and coworkers, conversation and laughter flows along with the drinks. I’m leaning back in my chair, watching Katniss with Finnick’s wife, Annie, on the dance floor. They laugh and spin. It’s nice to see Katniss having a good time, carefree. She can be so serious, so intense.

 

I make my way to the bar to order another beer for myself, and club soda for Katniss, who brought her car. But when I return to our table and resume watching the dancers, I realize that Annie isn’t there anymore. 

 

Katniss is dancing with a new partner.

 

He’s tall and dark, good-looking I guess, in a tries-too-hard way. Practically screams douchebag, with the way he's staring at Katniss.

 

Leering at my girlfriend.

 

Her back is to me, but I can see his smile, see the way he looks at her with lust in his eyes as she swivels and sways so seductively. See the way his hand sneaks out to wrap around her elbow. To draw her nearer. So close that one of his legs is between hers, creeping closer to her core.

 

He spins Katniss, then his hands are running over her hips, guiding her to gyrate with him. The movement erotic, almost pornographic. She meets my eyes across the room, her expression completely impassive. But she raises her hands, palms out. And I can read her thoughts.  _ It’s not like I’m touching him back… _

 

I can’t take my eyes off them, can barely blink. My cock swells and twitches even as anger floods my veins. The fucker runs his hands down her thighs, toying with the edge of her too-short skirt before wrapping an arm around her midriff, pulling her tightly against him. His eyes close, and I’m certain he’s rutting his cock against the small of her back.

 

But her eyes never leave mine.

 

“Who’s that with your girlfriend?” one of Finnick’s friends taunts, and I snap. I’m out of my chair fast enough to make it tip backwards, have stormed across the room and grabbed Katniss by the wrist before I can even consider the scene I’m making. A few hoots and hollers from the other patrons follow me, but I don’t fucking care. The only thing I care about is her pulse under my fingertips, and the path that opens like magic in front of me, guiding me out the back of the club.

 

We’re barely through the door before I’m pushing her against the brick wall. Her eyes are onyx and unfathomable in the weak light of a single streetlamp. For a few moments we only stare at each other, chests heaving. Then she smirks. “I didn’t do anything wrong here,” she mocks, parroting my own words back to me. And I can’t take it any more. Fury pounds through me as I use my body to pin her to the wall and kiss her.

 

Hard.

 

It’s a punishing kiss. I thrust my tongue between her lips, not waiting for an invitation but taking what I want, what I’ve wanted since the first fucking moment I saw her with him. My knuckles drag across the brick where I’m holding her head, but the burst of pain only makes me kiss her harder, biting and bruising, controlling. Taking. My lungs are burning, my lips aching, when finally I pull back. She’s panting and dishevelled, and so damned hot. Her dress rides up where my thigh is wedged between her legs, revealing inch after glorious inch of toned, tanned thigh to my greedy eyes. She rocks against me, moaning softly, her head lolling to the side just enough to expose that sweet spot where her shoulder meets her neck. I latch onto it, biting hard, knowing I'll leave a mark and not giving a damn. I want to mark her. I want everyone to know she’s mine. She keens, the wailing loud in the muffled hum of the alleyway. And all I can think of is making her scream my name, right here, right now.

 

I pull back so fast she gasps, but I’m frenzied, my blood is on fire. I drop to a crouch in front of her, lifting her skirt, tearing at her tiny black panties like a feral thing. Like a mutt. The fabric ruins pool around her ankle as I toss her leg over my shoulder. Her hands tangle in my hair and she whimpers. 

 

I don’t tease her, don’t press tickling kisses along her thighs, don’t part her folds gently with my tongue, don’t blow cool air across her glistening slit just to feel her tremble. I bury my face in her pussy, rough and impatient. My nose bumps against her clit as I devour her, licking and sucking, thrusting my tongue inside her. My fingers are gripping her ass cheeks hard enough to bruise, holding her firm as her leg quivers. A litany of curse words fall from her perfect peach lips. For a moment, for a fraction of a moment, one small, sane part of me realises that I have my girlfriend naked from the waist down mere feet from a door that a hundred people saw me tow her through not five minutes ago, and she’s getting loud. But the part of me driven mad with rage and lust is way too fucking turned on by the idea of someone seeing us, seeing Katniss wailing and mewling with my face between her legs, to stop now.

 

I want them to know she’s mine.

 

I wrap my lips around her little pearl, swollen with desire, and suck hard. Above me, she chants my name over and over, a benediction as I kneel at her altar. She squirms, seeking respite from my lingual onslaught but I grip her ass more tightly, my fingertips drifting between her cheeks. She comes with a shout and a sharp tug of my hair.

 

I lick her through her orgasm, much more tenderly, and when I feel her muscles slacken, when her fists release my hair, I lay my head against her hip and stroke her thigh with gentle fingers. She struggles to catch her breath, harsh gasps split the quiet of the alley.

 

Finally, I stand. Her head is tipped back against the wall, eyes hooded with lust, but wary. I press my forehead against hers. “You're mine,” I growl. 

 

“And you're mine.” She reaches between us, stroking my aching cock over my jeans. “Mine,” she repeats, squeezing firmly. 

 

Our mouths drift together; she laps her arousal from my lips and I groan. She's so impossibly sexy. And remarkably dextrous too; one-handed, she has my belt undone and jeans unzipped with a speed that makes me smile through our kiss. But the smile falters as her cool hand grips me, and I sense she’s in no mood to be gentle either. She only strokes me a couple of times before she’s pushing impatiently at my jeans. “I need you inside me,” she whines. “Right now.”

 

I shuffle my jeans down a little, she shoves them down further until they pool at my knees, then grabs my ass hard. At this rate, I’m going to come before I’m even inside her. But she’s the aggressor now, hooking her leg over my hip to draw me near, guiding me into her slick heat.

 

She’s so hot, so wet, and in this position so damned tight that my balls are already tingling. I try to go slowly, to make it last. But she’s having none of that. “Fuck me hard,” she grunts, biting my earlobe. I pick up my pace, her body lifts and shudders with each thrust. But I know I can’t hold on much longer. I wedge my hand between us, stroking her swollen clit far too roughly for how sensitive I know she is now. I swallow her surprised cry and my own moans, kissing her hungrily, needily. She clutches me tightly as we both fall over the edge.

 

Together.

 

All of the anger that hijacked my sense so completely rushes away, leaving me drained and ashamed, half-naked and holding the woman I love tightly while we gasp and shudder in a filthy alley. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. I know she understands.

 

She pushes sweat-soaked hair off my forehead. “I love you,” she replies, and after a moment follows with, “And I do trust you.”

 

“I know,” I sigh. “And I trust you too, Love. I - I get it now, I really do.” She shushes me with a kiss. But I need to get the rest out. “It felt awful, seeing that guy touch you.” She nuzzles my neck, threatening to disrupt my thoughts again. But I push forward. “And If Cashmere takes my class again I’ll tell her how uncomfortable it makes me when she hangs all over me. I should have done that from the beginning.”

 

Katniss smiles; a soft, pleased smile, but says nothing. There’s nothing else to say. I shouldn’t have dismissed her concerns, and especially without really understanding them. We cling to each other until I realize that my bare ass is freezing and my nuts are attempting to crawl into my stomach. She must be even colder. Reluctantly, we break apart. 

 

Her panties are ruined. She kicks what’s left of them partway down the alley before fixing her dress. I can’t help but smirk as I pull my jeans back up. Neither of us are really fit to go back into the club, and I doubt that Finnick will care if we don't return. “Want to come back to my place?” I ask, a little shyly. When she nods, my heart soars. Hand in hand, we make our way out to the street. And I know we’re going to be okay. 

  
  
  



	28. Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon compliant post-mockingjay, pre-epilogue. Just a random morning for Everlark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was a tumblr challenge from hutchabelle, with the prompt 'rain'.

I had everything planned to the letter. The picnic basket full of her favourite treats. The bottle of wine borrowed from Haymitch’s ‘collection’. The chocolate ordered from the Capitol and hidden away from her inquisitive nose. Everything just right. 

 

Everything except the weather. 

 

Katniss is still sleeping, stretched out on her stomach, the sheet tumbled low enough to expose her bare back and just a hint of the swell of her ass. Her raven locks flow over the pillows, glinting blue in the thin morning light. She is the very picture of perfection. 

 

Outside our bedroom window is another matter altogether. 

 

Thick clouds obscure the sun I know should have risen half an hour ago, the trees in the yard bend and creak in the wind. I don't have Katniss’s uncanny ability to predict the weather, but even I can tell it's going to rain. 

 

I lay my forehead against the window and sigh. Best laid plans. After everything I’ve lived through - two trips to the Games, a war, torture - it’s ridiculous to be so disappointed over a little rain.

 

A pair of cool hands slide around my waist and I jump, just slightly. We've been living together more than two years and still her silent footsteps take me by surprise every time. Soft, warm lips caress my shoulder and I can feel some of my tension ebb away. 

 

“What are you doing?” she murmurs, voice husky with sleep, sultry. “Shouldn't you be at work already?”  I opened my own bakery six months ago, not far from where my father’s stood before the war. Since then, I’ve been working six or seven days a week, trying to build a business. But not today. 

 

Outside, the heavy clouds start releasing their load. The first few droplets splash against the window glass. I shake my head. “I took the day off.”

 

Her soft, bare breasts press against my back as she wraps her arms more snugly around me. I groan. We’ve made love hundreds of times, yet every time she touches me it’s like the first time all over again. “Then come back to bed,” she murmurs, clearly only half awake.

 

Katniss strips away my pyjama bottoms before she pulls me into the comfort of rumpled, sleep-warm sheets. That too is something I’ll never tire of, that she wants nothing between us in bed. It took some time for us to get comfortable enough with each other to bare our bodies. Our scars, my leg, the marks of the people and things that hurt us and changed us irrevocably. It took a while to understand that those marks weren’t repulsive. That they are part of who we are, symbols of our resilience, in a way. Maybe even something to be proud of, in the sanctity of our bedroom.

 

She curls into me, head on my chest, over my heart, and falls rapidly back into slumber. Lulled by her warmth, by her slow even breaths fluttering across my skin, and the delicate patter of rain on the window panes, I join her.

 

When I again awaken it's even darker in our room, and rain drums insistently against the windows and roof. The staccato sound isn't what woke me though. 

 

Soft lips and calloused fingertips traverse tickling trails across my torso, raising goosebumps in their wake. 

 

That's not the only thing rising. 

 

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” she murmurs when she sees me watching her, then slides up my body to nuzzle my throat.

 

“It is now,” I smile, kissing her just lightly. This kind of lazing in bed is rare now, with all of the time I spend at the bakery. But it’s a luxury I have missed, the feeling of being snug and safe together in our nest of pillows and sheets. 

 

Wandering hands and lips caress, gradually become more insistent. We make love slowly, languidly. Drawing out our pleasure. Enjoying the decadence of a day with no plans, no responsibilities, with nothing pressing on my mind except her, Katniss, writhing and mewling beneath me.

 

And after, we lie forehead to forehead, sweat-slick bodies cooling in the fresh air that flows through our open window, hands clasped between us. It isn’t always like this. Sometimes sex is frantic, sometimes it’s tinged with anger. Sometimes it’s an escape when the world is too heavy. But sometimes, when our bodies and souls come together, when we move and think and breathe as one, it’s transcendent. 

 

“So why are you home, anyway?” she asks when our heart rates have returned to normal, her voice hoarse in a way that fills me with pride. But I sigh, a melancholy little noise in the dim.

 

“I wanted to spend the day with you.” Her smile widens, genuine delight painting her beautiful features. Katniss is remarkably easy to please, a fact I’d never have guessed when we were younger. “I planned on taking you for a picnic by the lake,” I tell her, and there’s a note of sadness in my voice. “I packed everything last night. But…”

 

“We can still picnic,” she says. “Right here, in bed.” And though the urge to scoff is there, I find myself instead padding through the house, gathering my hidden cache of goodies.

 

When I return, she’s lit candles, scattered them over the dresser and windowsill. She’s still gloriously naked, the bedding piled around her like a cocoon. Her eyes twinkle as she holds the blankets open for me to join her.

 

She finds the chocolate first, of course, moaning as each piece melts slowly on her tongue. We sip wine and talk about nothing, and it feels so good. 

 

After a while, I pull out bread, slather slices with creamy goat cheese. She watches me with an odd expression as she slices a crisp green apple, placing perfect rounds atop each piece of bread. 

 

The memory hits me hard and fast, makes me stop what I’m doing, clamp my eyes tightly shut and breathe slowly. Deeply. Search the mental images for shiny edges. But there are none. “We’ve… done this before,” I ask, hesitantly. “Real or not real?”

 

“Real, sort of,” she says with a soft smile. “Our first games. In the cave.”

 

We talk about the games occasionally as she helps me reconstruct the memories that were tainted or stolen altogether. But this feels different.

 

It's as if she's reading my thoughts. “We were happy then, for a few hours,” she says. “In the middle of that hell.”

 

“You were?” It's a careful question; asking about Katniss’s motivations in those first games sometimes triggers her flight reflex. But she smiles. 

 

“Yeah. We… we were so close then. You and me.” Her head settles on my shoulder, my arms envelop her. With the steady drumming of the rain, and the strong, fatty cheese on my palate, it really is a warmer, safer version of how I remember the cave. 

 

And I grin. 

 

A memory that two years ago might have turned me into a mutt. A discussion that two months ago might have sent her scurrying for the woods. Instead, we’re both here, together. Smiling. 

 

We’ll never completely recover from the horrors we’ve seen. But on a rainy morning in our nest of rumpled sheets and breadcrumbs, life is good again. 


	29. Headaches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a little slice of canon compliant post-mockingjay, pre-epilogue Everlark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A tumblr challenge, along with merciki and hutchabelle, the topic was ‘headache,’ up to 1,500 words. This is what I came up with. Rated T.

The lights are off, drapes drawn tightly against the afternoon sun. Katniss lies on our bed, cocooned in blankets, motionless. **  
**

I used to find her like this pretty frequently in the early days, when we were just broken kids, trying to make our way in this new world we’d had such a reluctant hand in building. Find her lying in the dark, curled into herself. Trapped by the weight of her guilt. Staring at the horrors only she could see.

But this is different, I know.

I climb onto the bed beside her, trying not to jostle the mattress. Her wince suggests I’m not wholly successful. “Again?” I whisper. She whimpers, a pathetic little sound. I shuffle a bit closer, brush the hair back from her face, kiss her forehead. “It’s the third time this week, Love.”

I cup her head in my hands; she’s unresisting. My thumbs press gentle circles across her temples. Just enough to start coaxing the pain away. Her little sigh urges me on. My fingers join my thumbs, delicately massaging her scalp as I search her face for clues. The small flinches that say I’m rubbing too hard or have hit a particularly sore spot.

The muscles in her neck are taut, but when I knead them they soften like dough from the fridge. I can feel the tension leaking away, hear her breathing deepen as she relaxes under my practiced touch. After a while, her silver eyes flutter open, squint against the faint streaks of orange light that filter through our curtains. “Hi,” she breathes.

“Hi yourself.” I press a gentle kiss to the top of her head. “Any better?”

“A little. Thank you.” She smiles, but the pain is evident in her eyes.

She’s been suffering from headaches for a few months now. They’re getting stronger, and more frequent. “Have you given any more thought to seeing Dr. McIntosh?” I’ve been asking her for a few weeks to consider having the headaches checked out at the medical centre here in District Twelve. I hate to push her; I know how much she hates doctors. I’m not too fond of them myself. After everything that was done to us in District Thirteen and the Capitol, it’s hard to trust anyone in a white coat. But I can’t stand seeing Katniss in pain. And I’m getting scared.

She sighs, and the weariness of that little noise makes my heart sink. But she surprises me. “I made an appointment for tomorrow.” The shock on my face amuses her; she cracks a reluctant little half smile. But she sobers just as quickly. “Would you come along?”

It’s so hard, still, for her to ask for help. For her to admit there are things she can’t do alone. I know her hesitation this time comes from worrying about me since she knows how much I hate the medical centre too. But my answer is immediate. “Of course, Love. What time?”

~~~~~~

She seemed fine this morning, but now sitting side-by-side in the overbright waiting room it’s clear she’s hurting again. She’s hunched in her chair, elbows on knees, head cradled in hands that push and pull the delicate skin of her scalp. I rub her back and say a silent prayer that we will get an answer today.

Dr. McIntosh is a lovely woman; calm, professional. We’ve both seen her several times; me for salves when my prosthetic chafes, Katniss for contraceptive shots. She knows our history. She understands our fears.

She doesn’t bat an eye when I hold Katniss’s hand the entire exam.

“Well, my dear,” Dr. McIntosh says after what feels like an interminable examination. “I think what’s going on here is simple eyestrain.” Katniss and I wear identical expressions of confusion, but the doctor smiles kindly. “You need glasses, Mrs. Mellark.”

Katniss scowls. She argues with the doctor, convinced that there’s nothing wrong with her vision. But all I feel is relief.

~~~~~~

Her irritation persists for a full week - along with the headaches. When we walk together she continually points out how good her eyesight is, how she can see a mockingjay in the tree top, can tell it’s one of Delly’s boys playing at the end of the laneway. But even as she protests, I can see what I should have seen months ago. Years ago, maybe. The way she squints - so subtle it could be confused with a scowl. The way she blinks more often, rubs her eyes frequently, as if trying to clear away a filmy haze. How she’s okay in the mornings but achy after a few hours. How nearly every evening she ends up with her head in my lap as I massage her temples.

Walking home from the bakery, I resolve to talk with her about it again today.

For the first time in what feels like forever, the house isn’t dark and silent when I approach. Golden light spills from the kitchen windows, faint notes of Katniss humming float to my ears, wrap around me like an embrace. She’s having a good day, the first in so long.

The humming stops abruptly as I clomp through the kitchen door. Katniss is standing at the stove, stirring something in a pan, but she’s unnaturally tilted, as if intentionally avoiding me. But I walk straight to her anyway, wrap my arms around her, pull her back snugly against my chest. Press a soft kiss to her neck. She sighs. But when I try to turn her she resists. “What’s going on, Love? Look at me.” It’s a plea, but the stiffness in her stance doesn’t diminish.

“You have to promise not to laugh.” I nearly break the vow before I’ve even made it, her request is so unexpected. But I manage to bite my lip, and simply nod against her hair.

She steps away, then spins slowly, with obvious reluctance. I can’t stop the smile that spreads across my face. Perched on the end of her nose are a pair of eyeglasses. Not the kind of old-fashioned spectacles I remember the tailor wearing, wire-rimmed and bottle-thick. These are slender pieces of glass, surrounded by what appears to be tortoise shell. Elegant and unique. They look right at home on her face, frame her silver eyes perfectly. She’s gorgeous and glorious, and the laugh bursts out of me before I can contain it. She scowls, but before she can otherwise react I’ve scooped her into my arms, spun her around. “You look so beautiful,” I breathe, the delight evident in my voice.

“I look like an idiot,” she grumbles. But there’s a half smile teasing the corner of her mouth. I kiss her, coaxing her lips into a full smile, then pepper her cheeks and chin and the tip of her nose with light little kisses until she’s laughing and squirming. “Stop,” she whines, but she’s grinning.

“So beautiful,” I murmur as I set her back on her feet. She pushes at the frames self-consciously.

“You really think so?”

“I’ve always thought so,” I remind her, and she elbows me.

But then she reaches up, drags a finger along the bridge of my nose. “Huh,” she says. “I forgot you had such cute freckles.” She smirks, silver eyes sparkling. “Guess I really did need glasses.”


	30. Gone Rogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peeta Mellark figured a trip to the only English language movie theatre around would be just the ticket to cheer up his best friend Katniss Everdeen, but they got a little more than they bargained for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This came out of a completely irreverent discussion with my fellow smutketeers @burkygirl and @peetabreadgirl, and is rated M for coarse language, sexual situations and terrible puns. Reader discretion is advised.

**Gone Rogue**

* * *

 

 

“This is pretty slummy, even for here,” Katniss breathed, looking up and down the deserted street. Desolation and neglect were evident in every abandoned storefront, every crumbling façade. But the marquee over the cinema, _Sala de cine_ , had most of its bulbs illuminated.

 

Peeta nodded, distracted, as he triple checked his phone. He was sure this was the place, trip advisor listed it as the only English movie theatre in the province. “I can’t imagine it’s very popular,” he said, staring at the empty display boards where movie posters should have been, but where only pieces of torn paper remained, faded to unreadability by the relentless sun. “I haven’t heard a single word of English since we stepped off the bus.”

 

“I hope it’s air conditioned,” she grumbled, and he sighed.

 

It had seemed like such a good idea when they planned it. Take a semester off college, spend three months in the southern hemisphere with his best friend, rebuilding earthquake-ravaged schools and community buildings. Good karma and bonding, away from the bitterly cold Panem winter. Away from his family and hers, away from school and the day to day drudgery of his parents’ bakery and her job at the diner. Away from Gale-fucking-Hawthorne, the stupidly tall and buff asshat who had his eye on Katniss.

 

But four weeks in, Katniss was obviously miserable. She hated the oppressive heat and was endlessly frustrated with their inability to understand the language. Peeta suspected she was homesick too, though she never mentioned that. Even in front of her closest friend, she tried to hide her feelings behind an almost impenetrable wall. Selfishly, that was the main reason Peeta had agreed to this service trip when she suggested it. He’d hoped that being out here, away from the real world, she’d let down her defences.

 

Let him in.

 

Because as much as he loved being her best friend, he also _loved_ her, and wanted so much more. And he wanted to tell her that, to show her that, while they were together in this new place, where maybe she’d be able to look at him with new eyes.

 

But he needed to lift her mood first, if there was any chance of her being receptive to his words.

 

So he suggested an excursion to find a movie theatre where they could watch the new Star Wars movie in English. Katniss was a huge Star Wars fan, and he knew she’d been steadfastly avoiding social media since the movie’s release, trying to avoid spoilers.

 

She’d jumped at the chance, the first time he’d seen her smile in days.

 

Peeta reached for the handle of the heavy wooden door, pulling it open and peeking inside. It was dim - everything in this country was dim - and while not air conditioned, at least substantially cooler than outside. He stepped back to allow Katniss entry; she wrinkled her nose as she stepped through the door. “Smells funny in here.”

 

“It smells funny everywhere,” he grumbled. He was generally a patient guy, but Katniss had been whining practically since the moment they boarded the bus to the city. “Do you want to just leave?”

 

“No,” she said, her tone softer. She grabbed his hand, squeezing gently, and Peeta relaxed.

 

The lobby did smell funny, musty and old, and there was no concession stand, but they made their way to the ticket booth. The man inside eyed them both suspiciously, but Peeta managed between rudimentary Spanish and a lot of pointing to buy two tickets.

 

Peeta wasn’t surprised to find the actual theatre completely deserted, though he was pretty sure that the ticket seller said the show was starting in ten minutes. He and Katniss made their way to the middle of the second-to-last row, which she always said was the best place to see all of the action, and settled in the threadbare but reasonably comfortable seats.

 

They chatted while they waited for the movie to start, and she seemed much calmer than she had all morning, happier. Peeta told jokes, teased her. It was comfortable. It was good.

 

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed before the house lights went down and the screen flickered to life. Once his eyes adjusted and Peeta could see the title shot for the movie he frowned. It didn’t look quite right. Katniss clearly noticed it too; she snorted as she pointed to it. “It’s misspelled,” she giggled.

 

Peeta squinted. It was indeed misspelled. _Rouge One_. “Must be a bootleg,” he laughed. “That’s better than subtitles anyway.” A huge explosion filled the screen, drawing their attention, before fading to the inky blackness of space dotted with stars. She grabbed his hand, and he grinned.

 

But as the music started playing - _that’s definitely not John Williams_ , he thought - it became obvious this movie wasn’t the one they were expecting. A ship that almost passed for a star destroyer came on screen, and then the scene cut to two women with their hair in side buns, a la Princess Leia, but definitely not dressed in rebel alliance uniforms. In fact, they were dressed in practically nothing at all, strips of flowing fabric and thigh-high boots that were not at all suitable for space travel. When a tall stormtrooper whipped out his _rouge one_ , Peeta sucked in a horrified breath.

 

He sat frozen for what seemed like hours as his mind tried to understand what the hell was going on.

 

“Holy shit, look at his lightsabre,” Katniss murmured beside him, and he tore his eyes away from the screen - where a ripped Jedi was using _the force_ to direct a scantily clad alien’s head as she blew him aggressively - to look at his best friend.

 

His shy, pure best friend, who he had apparently dragged into a porno theatre.

 

Her eyes were wide as saucers.

 

He finally snapped out of his stupor. “Shit, I’m sorry,” he gasped, dread knotting his gut. She was going to be so fucking pissed at him. “Let’s go,” he said.

 

“Yeah,” Katniss murmured, but she didn’t make any motion to leave. Her eyes remained locked on the screen, absolutely unblinking. As he watched, her tongue poked out to wet the lush lower lip he’d spent years dreaming about. She was breathing heavily, her chest heaved in the reflected glow of the screen, and her nipples were erect, sharp against her thin tank top.

 

Katniss was aroused.

 

His best friend, and the girl who’d starred in every damned one of his fantasies, was sitting beside him in a fucking porno theatre and getting hot and bothered.

 

He wondered if she was wet.

 

Nothing happening on screen was as big a turn on as watching Katniss squirm. Her hand still clutched his; through it, he could feel the way she was shifting in her seat.

 

He was going to blow his load in his pants. “Katniss,” he whispered, pained.

 

She turned to face him, her quicksilver eyes locking onto his, pupils blown wide. Her pink tongue snaked out again, slid sinuously along her lips. Under a soundtrack of guttural grunts and over-the-top moans she whispered, the barest puff of air over his lips. “Kiss me, Peeta.”

 

Some small, rational part of his brain offered a weak protest. It was a bad idea. It wasn't real. But maybe he’d dreamed of it long enough for it to become real?  Real enough anyway, reasoned the part of his brain that was connected to his throbbing cock. It strained against his shorts and the girl of his dreams was leaning in, lust in her eyes and a plea on her lips.

 

So he kissed her.

 

It wasn’t how he’d imagined their first kiss would be. It wasn’t gentle or tentative, it wasn’t a soft mutual exploration. It was hard, frantic. It was wet and sloppy, her tongue thrusting greedily into his mouth, taking.

 

It was perfection.

 

She groaned around his tongue, hands tangling in his hair, tugging hard - but the pain only made everything so much fucking better. Peeta growled, pulling her closer, cursing the armrest between their chairs. Her breasts pressed against his chest, pebbled but softer than he imagined. And when she shifted side to side just enough to drag those hard little nipples across his chest, the blood pounding in his temples chased decorum to the wind.

 

He pulled back, but not enough to separate their lips. Only just enough to snake his hand between them, sliding down into the neck of her camisole. She was braless; when his fingertips brushed against her nipple she shuddered. He cupped her breast in his large hand. It was small, but firm, the skin soft, silken. He plucked and played, rolling and teasing her taut peak while she writhed. She begged against his lips, words tumbling between kisses. More. Please. _Peeta_.

 

His name in her voice, husky and hot, was nearly his undoing. He shoved the strap of her tank top down, freeing one perfect peak, sweat-misted olive skin glistening in the faint light of the screen. Her dusky nipple stood at attention, begging for his mouth. She was breathtaking.

 

Wrapping his lips around her was a wet dream come true, and he knew the noises she made would be the soundtrack to his every fucking future fantasy. Her hands clawed; his hair, his shoulders, his back, grappling for purchase. Further inflaming him. And when he bit the rigid peak she buried her face in his hair, moaning more loudly than the actors onscreen.

 

He trailed kisses up her neck, laving the salt from her skin, listening to her breathing hitch. “Katniss,” he whispered against her ear. “I - I want to get you off. Can I?” It was a risky request he knew, but she only swallowed hard and nodded.

 

Peeta undid the little snap on her jean shorts one-handed, reaching in to cup her over her soaked panties, and he nearly bit through his tongue at the sensation. She lifted her hips, rocking against his hand, her head dropping back.

 

He shifted, slipping his hand under the fabric. Thick fingers parted her folds, sliding in all of the wetness. His groan was louder than hers.

 

She pressed her face against his neck, panting, hot puffs of air and whispered praise as he worked her, thumb circling her clit while two large fingers plunged and curled. High pitched whines filled the air, competing with the noises on the screen, and even though anyone could have walked in, she seemed unable to quell the sounds of her pleasure.

 

Peeta kissed her, claiming her lips, swallowing her moans. She rode his hand, awkward though the space was, kissing him until she couldn’t, kissing him until her lips went slack and she pulled back just enough to lock eyes with him.

 

She gasped his name breathlessly as she shattered, slick walls pulsing, pulling his fingers deeper. And he couldn’t tear his gaze from her face, her gorgeous face - always beautiful but more radiant than the sun as she came down from her climax. Her eyes were so soft with affection, her hand tender on his cheek, stroking the sweaty skin delicately.

 

Katniss leaned in to kiss him as he withdrew his fingers, and the gentle press of her lips to his was enough to make him almost forget about his aching dick. She laid soft little kisses all over his face, loving him, and he held her close. It was almost perfect.

 

Except that they were in a porn theatre.

 

The rebellion was still raging on screen, the hero in danger of being seduced by the dark side - which was apparently a euphemism for anal. Peeta carefully repositioned her tank top and Katniss laughed and fastened her shorts before grabbing his hand to tow him out of the theatre.

 

They practically ran out into the street, into the wall of heat, the relentless sun stabbing their eyes. Both squinted and staggered, the breathless fantasy of the theatre melting away in the face of bright sunshine and heat.

 

They made their way back to the bus stop slowly, almost reluctantly. She still held his hand, but there was a tension in her body. And though he was normally so silver-tongued, he found himself wordless. He wanted to ask her if what had happened between them was going to change anything, everything, but he couldn’t. She was flushed and looking everywhere but at him. Peeta’s heart sank as each step took him away from the most incredible experience of his life, and back towards reality, towards that place where he and Katniss were just friends.

 

By the time they were sitting side by side on the bright orange bus that apparently had no shocks, Peeta was close to despondent, and Katniss was again scowling. The tension got the best of him. “I’m sorry,” he murmured.

 

Her entire body stiffened; he knew she would be running away if she wasn’t sitting next to the window, caged in by his larger body. “Sorry?” she asked, steel eyes glinting dangerously. “You’re sorry?”

 

He swallowed hard. She was more upset than he’d hoped. Not that he could blame her. He’d taken advantage of her. “I shouldn’t have-” he started, but she cut him off.

 

“You regret that? W-what we did?” Her voice shook a little and it gutted him.

 

“No! I mean, yes, sort of. A little. But…” Peeta trailed off, then banged his head against the seat in front of them, groaning loudly. An electrically-charged silence hung between them. He broke it first. “Katniss,” he said softly, turning his head to look at her. She was staring straight ahead, silhouetted by the bus window, expression tight and tense. So incredibly beautiful, fierce, proud. Fiery. But he knew her, having breached her walls at least a little he could see through the angry mask, to the hurt beneath.

 

He couldn't keep lying, not to her. Not to himself. Couldn't keep pretending it didn't destroy him when she dated other men. Couldn't keep wondering if there was any chance there could be more between them. “Katniss,” he tried again, more firmly. Her chin trembled. “You have to know by now, how I feel about you.” She shook her head slightly, side to side. It could have meant no, it could have meant she didn't understand. It could have meant she knew but didn't want to accept it. He tried to push that third possibility out of his mind.

 

“I have wanted to kiss you for as long as I can remember,” Peeta murmured. He heard her suck in a sharp breath, but she remained steadfastly facing forward. “I’ve wanted to touch you like that forever.”

 

“Then why are you sorry?” Her question surprised him, the lack of anger in her tone gave him hope. She was still facing forward, but her silver eyes flicked to his.

 

“Because you deserve so much better than a copped feel in a porn theatre,” he said, regret evident in his voice.

 

Katniss turned to fully face him. They stared at each other, as if perched on the precipice of the unknown.

 

“Why do you think I asked you to come with me?” she said softly. “I though maybe here, away from home and everyone, maybe you’d see me as more than just your _buddy._ Maybe you’d see me as a woman.”

 

“I have always seen you as a woman, Katniss,” he groaned, one hand reaching up to cup the back of her neck. “I have fantasized about you so many times.” The slow smile that spread across her face spurred him on. “But it's more than that, Katniss. I-” He swallowed hard. “I'm so in love with you.”

 

“Me too,” she whispered. Then she kissed him.

 

This was the kiss he'd always imagined, sweet and sensual. Unhurried. A confession. “Finally,” she murmured when she pulled away, and he laughed. Her fingers stroked the scruff on his jaw, ruffled his curls. His arms pulled her closer. Then they were kissing again.

 

She laughed against his lips when the bouncing of the bus bashed their noses together. But they were undeterred, making the most of their vehicular captivity. Stolen kisses, breathless whispered revelations. Relieved laughter and promises. A new hope filled his heart.

 

And when they finally reached the village where they were staying, far, far away, Katniss again took his hand and led him at light speed to the dormitories.


	31. Thirty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the cusp of his thirtieth birthday, Peeta Mellark re-evaluates his life and thinks back on the one that got away...
> 
> Please note, this chapter is rated explicit

“You're coming, that's the end of it.” I roll my eyes even though Finnick can't see me through the phone. “I know you're rolling your eyes,” he says.

 

“It's not that I don't appreciate the thought,” I try, but he's having none of it.

 

“You only turn thirty once, Peet. I'm not going to let you spend the day wallowing and pining over that girl.” I sigh.

 

“I'm not pining over Delly.” Who even says _pining_ anyway? Finn’s picking up too many of his British girlfriend’s turns of phrase. He sounds like Brontë. “I told you, we were over long before we broke up.”

 

He snorts. “Whatever, Peet. You've been an emo tween for months.” Sadly, that's probably true. But it has a lot less to do with Delly and I ending our relationship, and a lot more to do with my displeasure in how my life is shaping up.

 

On the cusp of turning thirty, my life doesn't bear any resemblance to the dreams my younger self had. And I had such big dreams. I was going to open my own business, buy a little house with a big yard, and marry my soulmate.

 

But those dreams came to a screeching halt just before graduation. That's when the girl I'd been in love with forever, the one who'd been by my side - and in my bed - all four years of college, dumped me.

 

Katniss Everdeen.

 

To be fair, she didn't dump me, exactly. She was offered a scholarship for graduate school in Oxford, England. It was too big an opportunity to turn down. I told her I'd wait for her. She said that wasn't fair to me. I offered to go with her.

 

She said no.

 

She said a lot of other things too, about me not putting my life and my dreams on hold for her. But I didn't hear any of them. All I heard was that she didn't want me anymore.

 

I took off, didn't even go to our graduation, just had them mail my degree. I found a job in the city, an apartment, and Delly - all within a few months.

 

Katniss tried to contact me, many times. But I changed my phone number and blocked her on Facebook. I stopped talking to most of our mutual friends. When my dad phoned to tell me that Katniss had sent me a letter, I told him to burn it. And the one after that too.

 

She was dead to me.

 

My anger lasted years. I funnelled it into building a life in the city; climbing the ranks in the advertising agency where I still work, travelling, partying, filling my condo with expensive toys.

 

And Delly.

 

At first, being with Del was great. She was outgoing, fun and bubbly, so different than Katniss. She liked to party hard and live life in the fast lane. She was exciting. I loved it. And I tried to convince myself that I loved her. We made plans together, new plans. Completely different from the life my younger self had wanted.

 

But the longer we were together, the more those differences came to annoy me. The more Delly annoyed me, with her superficiality and her shallowness. More and more, I hated my cosmopolitan life. And I think Delly knew all along that my heart was elsewhere.

 

We tried for awhile, we really did. But the last two years of our relationship we were hardly even roommates. She spent her time shopping and partying and going out with friends, while I longed to grow up and settle down. We barely talked, except to argue or snipe at each other. The day she moved out, she accused me of using her as a placeholder. I'm ashamed to admit that she was right.

 

Now, I go home each day from a job I hate, to a condo filled with art and mementos but utterly devoid of life.

 

Maybe Finnick is right about the emo tween thing.

 

“Fine,” I acquiesce. “What time?”

 

\-----

 

Finnick has good taste, at least. The club where he's hosting my unwanted thirtieth birthday party is pretty cool. A former factory, it's warm and funky with exposed brick and gleaming wood. There's even a live band.

 

He’s invited a bunch of our coworkers and mutual friends. I make the rounds, accepting beers and shots and good wishes. But I'm really not enjoying myself. If anything, being here just reminds me that, with the exception of Finnick, none of these people mean anything to me. Cato buys me a drink not because we’re friends but because it's expected. Gloss checks his phone compulsively, as if gauging just how long he has to stay before he can bolt and go somewhere he actually wants to be. Glimmer whispers lewd suggestions in my ear, but then minutes later is grinding against some stranger on the dance floor.

 

I find a quiet place near the bar and watch them. My so-called friends. Every one of them is shallow. Fake. My heart hurts. Seven years in the city and I've never before felt so homesick.

 

“Have you met Annie’s friend?” Finn yells in my ear, over the music. Annie is Finn’s girl, a gorgeous, ethereal thing who teaches English Lit at one of the universities. I like Annie, she's been really good for Finn. Grounded him. He's much less of a party animal now. When we first met, he had a different lady friend every night. Now he's talking marriage. I guess that's what love can do.

 

I plaster a fake smile on my face, ready to attempt to be pleasant. Finn’s tried to set me up so many times over the eight months since Delly left that I know ‘meet’ is shorthand for ‘this one is available’.

 

But when I turn, it's as if I've been plunged into an icy lake. Every hair on my body stands on end and I can barely breathe. Standing beside the lovely Annie is a ghost.

 

The ghost of my long-lost happiness. Come to taunt me in my hollow, meaningless life.

 

Katniss.

 

The years have been kind to Katniss. She’s just as I remember her, and yet different too. Her hair is shorter now and she’s wearing it loose, falling in ebony waves around her beautiful face. Her eyes are exactly the same though, luminous silver pools that mirror her every emotion.

 

For a moment we simply stare at each other, shell-shocked. Her eyes flit between mine, searching. Then they soften, crinkle just a bit at the corners. “Hello, Peeta,” she says softly, in that smoky bourbon-soaked voice that's invaded my dreams for seven-and-a-half long years.

 

And in spite of the years and the distance, the anger and the pain, my cock twitches.

 

“Katniss.” It comes out in a gasp, and her lush lashes flutter.

 

“It's been a long time,” she murmurs. There's a lyrical lilt to her voice that wasn't there before, a remnant of her time in England, I imagine.

 

“You two know each other?” Finn asks, incredulous.

 

“We used to,” I say a little too sharply, and I don't miss how Katniss’s face falls. I mentally kick myself. I need to stop acting so wounded. Seven-and-a half years is far too fucking long to hold a grudge. “It's nice to see you again,” I tell her honestly, though nice understates it. It's incredible, a gift really. She smiles, a smile so much more tentative than I ever remember seeing her flash at me before. I know she’s thinking of how completely I cut her out of my life. Because even after seven-and-a-half years apart, I can read her beautiful face like a book.

 

“So how do you know Dr. Everdeen?” Finn asks, and I'm not sure which throws me for more of a loop - the doctor part, or the fact that she's still an Everdeen. I sneak what I hope is a surreptitious glance at her hand. Bare.

 

“I've asked you not to call me that, Finnick,” Katniss groans before I can answer. “We did our undergrad together.” It's a safe answer, and yet I'm possessed of an urge to demand she acknowledge how much more there was to us then.

 

Which is ironic, considering all of the years I spent denying it myself.

 

But I don’t say anything about that, and the four of us fall into small talk. As if I could have forgotten how smart and articulate and just plain interesting Katniss is. Time and experience have only added more layers, more intrigue. I find it increasingly difficult to keep up my part of the conversation. Instead, I’m utterly captivated by Katniss. The bar and the band and the background noise fade away as my world compresses to just her. To her silver eyes and throaty laugh. To the way her straight white teeth nibble on her plump peach lip when she’s thinking.

 

We converse so easily, it’s as if we’ve never been apart. The spark, the attraction, the way we finish each other's thoughts. It's all still there. I don’t even notice when Finnick and Annie wander away, so enthralled am I by Katniss, her stories, her thoughts. When the bar lights flash, I’m stunned. Last call already. The evening has flown by in her presence. For the first time in years, I feel like myself, not some sort of mutt version of me.

 

“It’s officially your birthday now,” Katniss murmurs, pointing out that it’s past midnight, and something long-dormant flares to life in my chest. She remembers. My smile feels like it’s going to split my face in two.

 

I can’t let the night end yet.

 

“Katniss,” I breathe, and I know I’m not imagining the way her pupils dilate when I say her name. “I really want to keep catching up with you. Would you like to come back to my place, have a nightcap?”

 

Her eyes widen fractionally, surprised and a little wary. But she nods. “I’d like that,” she says.

 

\------

 

She stands in my living room, looking around with a quizzical expression. “This is… nice?”

 

“You don’t like it?” I’m half distracted, opening a bottle of pinot noir.

 

“I do,” she says, though it’s clear she doesn’t. “It’s just not what I was expecting. It doesn’t seem like you.” She’s right, but it stings to have her see through my carefully constructed lies even before she’s taken a seat.

 

“People change,” I tell her, handing her a glass of wine.

 

“I guess they do,” she says.

 

We both sit on my couch, at first a respectful distance apart. But as we talk and drink we drift closer. She’s magnetic. She always was, and her pull on me hasn’t diminished.

 

One drink turns to two, conversation to gentle flirting. Her smiles start to come more easily as she relaxes.

 

I'm warm and content, mentally mapping the constellation of golden freckles on her pert nose when she smirks. “You haven't heard a word I've said.”

 

“Can't help it,” I murmur, not chagrined in the least. “You're just so beautiful.”

 

She smiles, and as I watch, a rosy blush paints her smooth olive cheeks. “You are too,” she says. “I always thought so, but you’re even more handsome now, Peeta.” She bites her lip, and my cock, which has been at half-mast all night, springs to full attention. She's so sexy.

 

I reach out to cup her face, pulling her lip free with my thumb. Her eyes flit down to my mouth and it’s all the invitation I need.

 

Kissing Katniss is an exquisite agony, something I haven’t experienced in years, and yet so heartrendingly familiar. And she feels it too. I can tell in the way she explores my mouth with the delight of someone rediscovering a long-lost favourite.

 

I tangle my fingers in the soft ebony cloud of her hair, tugging the silky strands the way I remember she likes, and she groans against my lips. I need more, so much more. When I pull her into my lap, her sigh sounds like relief. Her skirt shifts upward, baring those legs that go on for-fucking-ever to my greedy gaze. Then she’s writhing over me, rubbing against my cock as I thrust upward helplessly, chasing the heat I can feel even through our clothes.

 

Her head drops to suckle my throat and I growl. When my hands wander under the hem of her blouse she doesn’t resist, leaning back to pull her shirt over her head, leaving her in just a lacy bra. My hands convulsively squeeze her ass as my eyes rake ravenously over her barely concealed tits, smooth olive swells spilling over ivory cups. She has the most magnificent breasts, two perfect handfuls, firm and real.

 

We were each other’s firsts. Every one of my sexual preferences was learned between her legs. In spite of everything that came after, she’s still the archetype of perfection for me, my every fantasy embodied in one tight ass and pair of perky tits.

 

She raises an eyebrow at me and smirks wickedly, cupping those perfect mounds in her hands, thumbs stroking her pebbled nipples luridly. “Miss these?” she murmurs, the first time she’s acknowledged our past physical relationship all evening. The noise that erupts from my gut is barely human.

 

I shove her hands away and take one lace-covered peak between my teeth, nipping just a little too hard. She yelps, but not in dissent, her hands cup the back of my head, holding me in place as I roughly reacquaint myself with her perfect nipples, the ones I still envision when I jerk myself.

 

She’s just so fucking hot, rocking against me and moaning. I have missed her noises, her little grunts and gasps, so fucking much. I push up her skirt and reach between us to cup her over her panties; she’s soaked. She’s soaked for me. “Peeta,” she groans, and it lights my fuse. I’m going to fucking explode.

 

I lift her off my lap to stand in front of me, pulling off those sopping panties and bringing them to my face, inhaling deeply. She smells phenomenal. Before she can react, I grab her ass and pull her to me, lifting her leg onto the couch so I can bury my face in her pussy. Her fingers again wind in my hair, steadying herself as I lap at her arousal, sweet and spicy. A breathless litany of curse words, punctuated by invocations, fall from her lips as she grinds against my face.

 

I bring her right to the edge, she’s panting and whimpering, and I’m so hard I can’t even think. But she pulls away. “Please,” she moans, and I can feel the word in my dick. “I want you inside me when I come.”

 

She doesn’t have to ask twice.

 

“Kneel on the couch, legs wide,” I growl. She leans forward, capturing my bottom lip between her teeth and tugging before climbing onto the couch beside me. She lays her arms along the back, arching her spine to present her ass like a gift, her glistening pussy lips peeking at me from between her thighs. It takes every speck of restraint I possess not to blow my load in my jeans like a horny teenager.

 

There’s a single condom in my wallet, I grab it and hold it between my teeth as I unbuckle my belt. She shudders at the sound. My hands shake as I shove my jeans and boxers down just enough to free my throbbing cock. I’m so pent up that even rolling the condom down my length is torture. I kneel between her legs, shoving them a little wider and she groans. The smooth globes of her ass tempt me and I squeeze them, trailing my nails along the flesh, watching goosebumps rise in my wake. She’s panting and trembling, wiggling her ass impatiently. It’s such a turn on.

 

“Tell me,” I say as I rub the head of my cock along her slick lips. “Tell me what you want.”

 

She glances at me over her shoulder, eyes hooded, hair wild. She’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. “I want you to fuck me hard, Peeta,” she gasps. I dip just the head of my cock into her heat, she arches more, practically begging me to fill her. It’s too much. I curl my hand around her waist and my hips snap forward and I sink into her, right to the hilt. She cries out in surprise and I groan. Holy shit she’s tight! How could I ever have forgotten how perfectly she fits me?

 

It’s as if she was made for me.

 

As if we were made for each other.

 

We’re both still for a few long moments, revelling in the feeling of being joined again after so long. Then she squirms. “Oh God, Peeta, please.” It’s almost a sob. I pull back just enough to plunge back in hard, enjoying the way her ass jiggles with every stroke, her little mewling cries of pleasure.

 

I can’t take my eyes away from where we’re joined, watching my cock disappear over and over. I grab her ass again, spreading her cheeks, teasing the cleft with my thumbs. She shudders, dropping her face to her arms and moaning. And I can’t hold back the words. “You feel so fucking good.” She clenches at my words and I can barely breathe through the pleasure. “So gorgeous, you are so gorgeous Katniss,” I mutter, not even certain if she can hear me. Not even caring if she does. “So hot and wet and tight, so perfect. I’ve thought of you so many times. Jerked off thinking of you so fucking many times.”

 

I don’t want this to end. I don’t want to stop. Seven years of missing her, even when I was fighting so hard to hate her. The idea of only having her once threatens to break me. I need so much more

 

I slow my pace, just a little, and lean over her back, wrapping an arm around her to cradle her body against mine. Press kisses along the nape of her neck, trail them down her spine. She clutches my hand where it’s wrapped around her ribs and twines our fingers together. It’s such a sweet connection. Intimate.

 

She gasps, and it sounds like my name. I can’t hold off much longer. “Are you close?” I beg.

 

“So close.”

 

I trail my fingers down to tease her clit, pressing tight circles against the little nub and she comes with a long, drawn-out moan. The way her pussy pulses around my dick is my undoing, and I follow her, spilling into the condom as I grunt.

 

We collapse together on the sofa, still joined, and I hold her spooned against my chest as I soften, then slip out. We breathe together, and all I can think of it how much I want to be inside her again. And again and again and again.

 

Always.

 

As if she can sense the shift in my thoughts, she speaks. “Peeta? Why wouldn’t you talk to me before?”

 

I kiss her shoulder blade, bury my nose briefly in her sweet hair. Then I sigh, and climb off the couch. She looks over her shoulder, horror and vulnerability playing in those quicksilver eyes that have haunted me for nearly half of my life. She has absolutely no reason to trust me, and every reason not to trust me. But when I offer her my hand, she takes it.

 

I lead her to my bathroom and dispose of the condom while she cleans herself up. Her skirt falls back into place and she’s still wearing her bra. I’m completely dressed, though my jeans are undone. We’re silent until I catch her eyes in the mirror. She looks defeated. I move to stand behind her, holding her gaze as I wrap an arm around her collarbone. The contrast of her rich skin against my paler colouring is incredible, I itch to draw us. To replace the hundreds of sketches I’d done when we were together. The ones I’d torn up when we split, trying to erase what we’d had. What we’d been. Regret and remorse pool in my gut. “Let’s talk,” I murmur against the shell of her ear, and she nods.

 

We don’t return to the living room. Instead, I guide her to the dim intimacy of my bedroom. We sit side-by-side, leaning against the headboard. It takes a small eternity before I can find my voice. “You left me.” My voice is so small, like a child.

 

“I didn’t want to. But I couldn’t give up the scholarship, the opportunity.”

 

“I know,” I tell her, and have to clear my throat against the lump welling up. “But I would have come with you. I wanted to.”

 

“You had so many plans, Peeta,” she says, and I can hear the tears in her voice, though I keep my eyes resolutely forward. “You were going to open your own bakery, build a business and a home. I didn’t want you to lose those two years.” I'd lost those years, and so many more. Hijacked my own dreams entirely. And I have no one to blame but myself. She sniffles, and I wait for her to continue though my heart aches. “I didn’t want your dreams to have to wait for mine. I guess…” she pauses again, sighing deeply. When she continues, it’s a whisper. “I hoped that when I came back we might have had a chance to be together again.”

 

I think of all of the messages and letters I refused to read, wondering how many of them said just what she’s telling me now. “But you didn’t come back,” I remind her. She stayed in Oxford not only for her Master’s, but for her PhD and for several years of post-doc research too. In our earlier conversation, she mentioned having only been back a year.

 

“There was nothing to come back to,” she says simply. “Your father kept in touch. I knew there was no place for me in your life.”

 

“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I shouldn’t have shut you out. I was just so hurt that you didn’t want me anymore.”

 

“I never stopped wanting you,” she interrupts, her voice laced with pain.

 

“I know.” I reach for her hand and clutch it tightly. “I was so young and stupid and self-centred. It took a long time to understand that you were trying to protect me.”

 

“It’s what we do,” she whispers. “Or what we did.”

 

I play with her fingers, contemplating her words. Searching my heart. “Katniss,” I whisper, finally turning to look at her again. Silvery tear tracks shine on her cheeks, her eyes are puffy and her nose red.

 

She has never looked more beautiful to me.

 

“Could we try again?” A year ago I would never have contemplated asking her that. But seeing her here, beside me, clutching my hand so tightly that her slender fingers are white; seeing her in my bed half-dressed, her soul bared for me; it’s finally clear. She’s the key. She’s the first step in getting my life back on track, to being the man I was meant to be. The one I want to be.

 

I’ve changed from the boy who loved her. She’s changed from the girl who loved me. But as she nods shyly, and leans in to kiss me sweetly, I know. This time we’re ready to make it stick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for everlark birthday drabbles on Tumblr, for the prompt: I would adore a drabble where they are returning to each other years later after an initial breakup, matured and ready for it to stick this time.


	32. History, repeated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found this tiny drabble when I was clearing out my google docs. I wrote it back in June, and I no longer remember why, so I thought I'd throw it up online.

**History, repeated**

 

They play together in the meadow. The dancing girl with the dark hair and blue eyes. The laughing boy with blond curls and grey eyes. She’s lean and lithe, her musical voice ringing clear as she calls to him. He’s no longer a chubby toddler and can almost keep up with his sister. My children.

 

And curled in my lap, napping; my little surprise, my baby girl who decided our family wasn’t quite finished before she arrived to join us two years ago.

 

Whenever the other inhabitants of District Twelve see her they inevitably comment on how she’s Peeta’s little clone; they joke about whether we’re sure who the mother is. Whereas my dancing girl and laughing boy are each a perfect blend of me and Peeta, our little unexpected bundle is someone entirely different.

 

At a glance she is her father; pale skin, blonde hair and blue eyes, even his cleft chin. But I know better. 

 

Her hair is spun gold, and fine as silk, unlike her father’s ashy waves. Her eyes are a deeper blue than Peeta’s, with flecks of grey swimming in their depths. My daughter is a perfect replica not of her father, but of the aunt she’ll never know.

 

And though she’s only two she’s already showing Prim’s nurturing nature, offering hugs and comfort freely, and utterly without reservation.

 

There are days, now that she’s toddling, when she walks into a room and the light shines through her baby fine hair just so, and I’m transported back to a simpler time. To a tiny shack where a man and a woman loved each other deeply and doted on their children. To a home filled with love. Life wasn’t perfect then, but it was good. So good.

 

Then the spell is broken, by my husband scooping the baby into his arms to blow raspberries across her tummy, by my little boy launching himself into my lap for snuggles and stories, by the songs my raven-haired daughter sings for her little brother and sister, vowing to look out for them always. And I realize that I have that life again. A man and a woman who love each other deeply, who cherish their three beautiful children in a home filled with love.

  
Life isn’t perfect. But it’s ours. All five of us.


	33. When Irish Eyes are Smiling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Travelling abroad to lose herself, Katniss Everdeen finds something she didn't even know she was looking for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Modern AU, rated M for language and adult situations. Written for the tumblr blog @everlarkbirthdaydrabbles

It's not completely unexpected, but it's still a shock to see it. Thick, expensive card stock, pale pink with roses and their names embossed in gold.

 

_Madge Undersee and Gale Hawthorne, along with their families, request the honour of your presence at their wedding…_

 

I'm happy for them, I truly am. I'm just still kind of shocked that after nine years together, it took Gale less than three months to marry my replacement.

 

It's not like I thought Gale and I would ever marry each other, even if our friends all expected it. And our breakup was completely mutual. But that he moved on so fast is kind of a slap.

 

“You should go on vacation,” Prim says when I phone to tell her the news. “That way, you can skip the wedding without looking like a jerk.” Trust Prim to cut right to it. Because she's right; even though Gale is my oldest friend, I'd rather rip out my intestines with a fork than watch him marry the woman of his dreams while all of our mutual friends look at me with pity.

 

“I can't go sit on a beach somewhere by myself,” I groan. “That's even more loser-ish than going to my ex’s wedding stag.” But the wheels are turning. I do need to get away, and not just from the wedding. I could use a break from my entire pathetic life. “Maybe I could go see Effie?” I mumble. My late mother grew up in Ireland, she moved to America before I was born to marry my father. Her sister still lives near Dublin, and is always asking me to come see her. It's been a long time since my last visit.

 

A fabulous deal on the flight seals it. Since I'm a freelancer, there's no one to arrange vacation time with. I can work from anywhere that there's an internet connection. My neighbour agrees to check my mailbox periodically, and my friends all understand.

 

o-o-o

 

I arrange to stay six weeks with Effie. The first week passes in a haze of jetlag, lumpy pillows, and daily afternoon tea on her garden-gnome-and-flower-strewn patio. It’s calm, quiet.

 

Since I’ll be gone over my birthday, Prim insists on paying for a week-long bus tour of the Scottish Highlands for me, both as a birthday gift, and as a break from my aunt. “Better not be one of those singles tours,” I grumble as she details everything over Skype while I sit in Effie’s formal living room, surrounded by creepy porcelain dolls, a pair of lace doilies protecting her mahogany table from my computer. Prim’s in med school in Seattle, I haven’t seen her since Christmas, and I think she feels guilty about not having been there for me - in person - when Gale and I broke up, no matter how many times I tell her that I’m fine about it. But since Effie is already driving me crazy, I don’t put up much of a fight.

 

“Do those exist?” she asks, and on my shitty laptop screen she looks pensive. I can tell she’s wishing she’d thought of looking for one. “ _Wild and Sexy Tours_. Huh. I wonder if I can change it…” She starts clicking away on her keyboard and I balk.

 

“No, geez Prim, this is fine, great really.” The website she’s linked me to shows small tour buses, catering mostly to elderly vacationers. Just my speed.

 

“Have you met anyone over there yet?”

 

“Sure, Effie’s friend with the strange beard came by for cocktails yesterday.” Prim’s face screws up.

 

“That’s not what I mean, Katniss. Have you been out to the pubs at all? Or gone to a rugby match?” At my shrug, she groans. “Dammit, you’re too young to be spending your time holed up with Effie’s antiques. You need to get out there, meet people, date.”

 

“I’m not really ready for that,” I tell her, and I can see by the way her expression changes to pity that she thinks I’m still hung up on Gale. I don’t bother correcting her. Gale and I should never have been more than friends, we both knew it, but being together was easy, like a comfortable pair of jeans. I’m not in love with him, I really never was. But I’m not anxious to put myself out there just yet. Or maybe ever. Because Gale’s the only guy I’ve ever been with. At not-quite twenty-seven, I have no experience dating at all.

 

“Just promise me you’ll talk to some of your tour mates at least,” she says sadly. And I promise, because I can never tell my sweet sister no.

 

o-o-o

 

Edinburgh is a confusing mess of streets and hills and hilly streets and more freaking hills, and by the time I find my way to Waterloo Place, where I’m supposed to catch the bus tour, I’m late and in a panic. When I see the little red bus still at the stop, I’m almost weak-kneed with relief.

 

“‘Bout time you showed up, Sweetheart,” the driver grumbles, grabbing my backpack and tossing it unceremoniously into the back. I climb on board, and my heart sinks. I’m too late to have gotten one of the single seats, and am now going to be stuck sharing. There are only two empty seats, one on the bench in the very back, between a young woman with spiky hair and a serious case of bitch face and a man who might be a professional football player; the other right behind the driver, next to a startlingly handsome man, who glances up at me through a mop of ashy blond waves, and smiles shyly.

 

I hope Blondie isn’t a talker.

 

o-o-o

 

Blondie is a talker.

 

His name is Peeta Mellark, and he fills the first hour of our drive north with mostly one-sided conversation. But I find I don’t mind all that much. He’s Irish, from a village on the Irish sea, and his gently lilting accent is much nicer to listen to than the rough Scottish burr that our driver barks as he points out one thing or another along the route. Peeta frequently adds context and extra information to the driver's brusque observations.

 

“You know a lot about Scotland,” I finally say.

 

Peeta smiles wistfully. “My da used to bring me here, when I was small. We’d walk the hills and sleep in the heather.”

 

“How long has he been gone?” Peeta lifts an eyebrow, but I know I’m right. I recognize the look in his eyes. It’s the same expression I wear when I think about my own father, whose death when I was just a kid marked the beginning of the end of my idyllic childhood.

 

“I was seventeen when he passed,” he says quietly.

 

“You miss him.” It’s not a question, I can see in Peeta’s eyes. He nods. But any further discussion is cut off by our first stop on the tour.

 

Though it’s a bus tour, it turns out to be a fairly active one. We make multiple stops all along the route to the Highlands, exploring an ancient cathedral, touring a distillery, even visiting a heritage village. And as what appears to be the only two people travelling alone on the tour, Peeta and I end up spending most of the day together.

 

It’s… nice. He’s sweet and interesting, and it’s refreshing to talk with someone my own age.

 

When we arrive at Inverness, our stop for the night, I realize that Peeta and I have been assigned to the same bed and breakfast, along with the linebacker, whose name is Thresh,  his girlfriend Rue, and our driver, Haymitch. That’s going to make keeping to myself that much more difficult, I realize. Then Haymitch arranges for the whole group to eat together at a pub on the river. I want to say no, that I’m too tired or some other excuse, but somehow I get sucked along anyway.

 

I hate being forced into group situations, but Peeta, seeming to sense my unease, sits beside me and acts as a bit of a buffer between me and the throng, not speaking for me, but deflecting attention when I get overwhelmed.

 

And it’s compelling to watch him interact with the others. He’s so friendly and well-spoken, so intelligent and insightful, easily moving between discussing the differences between American football and Gaelic rugby with Thresh, and the impact of Brexit on tourism in the Republic with the South African lawyer seated at the next table.

 

And though I promised myself that I wouldn’t think about Gale, it’s impossible not to compare him with Peeta. Gale has always been sort of closed minded; conversation with Gale is only possible on the narrow range of topics he cares about, and generally involves either a recitation of his opinions with no room for dissent, or a re-living of his glory days. But Peeta is so thoughtful, I watch him absorb and consider everyone’s viewpoints, watch him reflect back intelligent discourse in a way that feels engaging and exciting, not like a firestorm. I can’t help thinking that maybe Prim is right. Maybe I do need to spend time with people my own age instead of feeling like I’m still stuck in highschool with Gale.

 

o-o-o

 

The sun rises ridiculously early in Inverness, and the curtains in my room are barely translucent. By five-thirty, I’ve given up on sleep entirely, and decide to sneak down to the common lounge, where the wifi signal is better.

 

I’m surprised to find I’m not alone. Peeta is already there, dressed for the day and facing the large plate glass window, beyond which the sky is streaked in pink and amber. He doesn’t hear me at first, and I can see in the reflection that his usual easy expression has been replaced by something more intense and removed that suggests an entire world locked away inside him. I decide to steal away, to leave him to his musings, but he catches the motion and turns, the faraway expression resolving into a smile that seems so genuinely sweet with just the right touch of shyness that unexpected warmth rushes through me. “Good morning, Katniss,” he says.

 

“What are you doing up so early?” I ask. There’s an empty teacup on the windowsill, he’s clearly been here awhile.

 

“I’m a baker,” he laughs. “I’m used to the pre-dawn wake-ups.” I grin, I heard him mentioning his business over dinner, and I’m curious about it.

 

He makes me a cup of tea, and another for himself, and as we sit together in the early morning hush he tells me about the bakery he owns in the tiny coastal village where his family has lived for generations. The picture he paints of his bucolic life there makes me ache, my own empty, tetherless existence in sharp contrast to his certainty. It makes me realize how stunted my growth has been, having wasted all of that time with Gale. Playing things safe instead of living.

 

I’m ready to live.

 

o-o-o

 

Our tour guide, Haymitch, is gruff and grouchy, but he seems to know all of the hidden gems of Scotland. As we head to the Isle of Skye, he makes frequent stops to walk nature trails with stunning waterfalls, to show us multiple off-the-beaten-path lookout points, and we even spend a glorious hour searching for shells on a Carribean-blue beach. But in the mid afternoon, the bus starts to make a strange noise. And as we pull into our next stop on the itinerary - the enchanted-sounding Fairy Glen - it comes to a shuddering halt.

 

“Ah shit,” Haymitch grumbles.

 

“Well,” Peeta murmurs in my ear. “There are worse places to get stuck.”

 

He’s right, this place is utter magic. As a group, we explore the strange rolling hills and mini lochs of the glen, walking the concentric rings and pressing coins into cracks in cave walls. Peeta is half mountain goat, I swear, practically jogging up the steep hills, gently teasing me as I lag behind. My laughter, unfamiliar but free, echoes all around.  

 

And eventually, Peeta and I end up in a little meadow-like depression at the bottom of one of the hills. I haven't felt so free since I was a kid. I'd love nothing more than to lie in the grass and watch the clouds float by; when I say so, Peeta pulls off his sweater and spreads it on the ground, tugging me down to lie beside him, my head pillowed on his arm.

 

I must drift off because the next thing I know, the patchy blue sky has clouded over completely, and Peeta is sitting beside me.

 

“Peeta, you should have woken me,” I say, rubbing the sleep crud out of my eyes.

 

“For what? Nothing’s going on here,” he says. “Besides, I like watching you sleep. You don’t scowl. Improves your looks a lot.” This, of course, brings on a scowl that makes him grin. “I’m kidding,” he laughs. “You’re beautiful, scowling or not.”

 

Something flutters in my chest, but I push it away. I don’t have room for that in my life. Instead, I nod towards the notepad in his hands. “What’s that?”

 

He tilts the paper towards me. It’s not writing, like I’d assumed, but a drawing. A sketch of a sleeping girl. My breath catches at the image on the paper. It’s me, clearly, and the talent in the pencil lines is mind-blowing. But it’s more than that. The girl in the picture looks softer, calmer, like all of her worries have been cast away. Peaceful. No, not peaceful... _content_. I haven’t been that girl in a long time. “This is incredible, Peeta,” I whisper.

 

“I have an eye for beauty,” he says, and it should sound cocky, like a come-on line. But from him, with those earnest blue eyes smiling, it just doesn’t.

 

Haymitch comes stomping into the clearing, greasy handprints marring his kilt. “Bus is fixed, git your arses on it,” he grunts.

 

Peeta gathers his sweater and notepad, and we trudge back to the bus. The tour continues in near silence, but it’s a good quiet. A comfortable quiet. Peeta wraps his arm around my shoulder and I find myself leaning into him as he strokes my hair. It’s uncomplicated and intimate. And though I've never been a cuddly person, I love it.

 

Our last stop is a trail that winds around a glassy Loch. The whole group is subdued, introspective maybe. Or maybe just hungry. Peeta and I lag behind though, enjoying the calm.

 

We emerge from the cover of the trees into a patch of yellow flowers, glowing in the sunlight. “Gorse,” Peeta answers my unasked question. “It's everywhere at home too.”

 

“They smell fantastic,” I sigh. “Coconutty. Like the beach.” He chuckles, but when I reach for the golden flowers, he grabs my hand. I scowl.

 

“Thorns,” he says, delicately moving the blooms aside to show me that what I thought were flat leaves or needles are actually sharp spines. “Beautiful on the outside, but nasty underneath.”

 

“Just like me,” I say absently, but his brow wrinkles.

 

“No, Katniss,” he says. “You’re not like the gorse. You’re a bluebell.” I roll my eyes, but he continues, so earnestly. “Bluebells are shy, unassuming. Most people hardly notice them.” He leads me with a gentle hand on my lower back to the shady part of the hill. Only when he points them out do I realize the bluebells are in full bloom here. “But they’re strong and resilient, stubborn even. And once you see them, you can’t tear your eyes away from their beauty.” I turn to face him, but his hand doesn’t fall away, shifting instead to trace circles on my hipbone.

 

I want to scoff, to dismiss his words as the polished pick up lines of a player. But I can’t. As I stare at him, utterly speechless, he reaches up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. I lean into his touch, and he smiles, just the barest lift of his lips. Sweet and hopeful. Before I can even consider what a terrible idea it is, I lift up on my toes and kiss him.

 

It’s a gentle kiss, but the desire that flares in my gut from that brief touch is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. I haven’t kissed a lot of guys in my life, a handful back in highschool, only Gale after that. But no kiss has ever before felt so electric. I need more.

 

It’s clear he agrees, because almost as soon as I press my lips to his again, he takes control, one huge hand cupping my cheek, tilting my head to deepen the kiss. Exploring me thoroughly. I can’t hold back the little noises that escape me, and he groans softly in response.

 

I lose all sense of time and place, gripping his shirt, kissing him with a passion I wasn’t certain I was even capable of. It’s only when I hear the rest of the group heading down the path towards us that I pull away, reluctantly.

 

Peeta’s eyes flutter open, heavy-lidded, pupils fat. “I have wanted to do that since the first moment I saw you,” he whispers.

 

We don’t talk about the kiss, but for the rest of the day Peeta holds my hand. Even through dinner at a quiet little restaurant right on the harbour, he plays with my fingers, looking at me with something like adoration.

 

When we get back to our B&B I’m not ready for the evening to end. But there are other guests in the common lounge, playing a raucous game of cards. “Would you like to come to my room?” I ask, then immediately feel heat climbing up my cheeks. “Just, uh, just to talk a while longer.” I can’t meet his eyes. I’m incapable of flirting, or of communicating at all, really. Yet he follows me unquestioningly.

 

We sit side by side on my bed, talking. But there’s a tension between us that wasn’t there before, a crackling awareness. I don’t even know who makes the first move, but one minute we’re talking, the next I’m sucking on his tongue and his arms are pressing me tightly to him.

 

Kissing Peeta here in my quiet room is even better than on the nature trail. Free from distractions, I can let my hands wander, trace the firm musculature of his shoulders and arms, feel the pull and flex of his back. He unravels my braid and runs his fingers through the locks. “Beautiful,” he whispers against my lips.

 

We kiss and caress, hands becoming more bold. It’s when he lays me back on my bed, the hard length of his body cradled by my own, that I begin to panic. “Peeta,” I start. “I really like you.”

 

He pulls back just enough to look at my face. Then he smiles fondly. “But you’re not ready,” he says, and I’m shocked that he anticipated my words. “I know,” he says, and there’s no anger, he doesn’t even look disappointed. “We won’t do anything that you don’t want to,” he promises.

 

“Could we keep kissing?” I sound all of thirteen, pathetic and immature. But he doesn’t laugh at me.

 

“I’d like that,” he says.

 

We kiss and touch, chastely, fingers on napes and cheeks, tangled in hair. Making out like teenagers. Like the teenager I never really was. And eventually we fall asleep wrapped around each other.

 

o-o-o

 

I expect the morning to be awkward, but it isn’t. It isn’t at all. When I wake up, he’s still there, lying beside me, awake and smiling contentedly. He kisses me, just lightly, before retreating to his own room to get ready for the day.

 

We tour two different castle ruins, climb down (and back up) a gorge, and check out dinosaur fossils. He’s gently affectionate through it all, holding my hand, kissing my cheek, but never demanding anything else.

 

But I tug him into my room and my bed again that evening. And again he kisses me to sleep.

 

o-o-o

 

Gale’s wedding day falls on the fourth day of the tour. I'm cranky, and Peeta notices. He asks me what's wrong but I brush him off. But even in the face of my moodiness, my pique and my - as Haymitch says - ‘slug-like charm’, Peeta is patient with me. Willing to take whatever little bits of myself I offer. And it's that acceptance that prompts me to open up to him. In fits and starts over the course of the day as we walk and tour and explore, I tell Peeta about Gale, about the wasted years, about the holding pattern I've been in since we split.

 

He listens attentively, neither judging nor offering platitudes. But his quiet support means the world to me. “Do you still love him?” he asks as we sit on the dock in a quiet harbour town, watching the seabirds circle and dive.

 

“I never did,” I confess. “But after so long, I don't know how to move on.”

 

When we return to the B&B, I again tug Peeta into my room. But this time I know something has shifted between us. Our sweet, chaste kisses rapidly escalate. And though Peeta tries to slow us down, tries to be a gentleman, I want more. And after a few attempts, he gives up on the idea of reining us in, surrendering to my demands and my searching fingers.

 

Our clothes fall away, until I’m down to my bra and underwear, and he’s only in shorts. He stares at me in awe, as if I’m something exotic instead of plain Katniss Everdeen, far too bony and wearing threadbare panties. And though I’ve only ever been naked in front of one man before now, I don’t hesitate to reach behind me to unhook my bra. But Peeta stills my hands. “Are you sure?” he asks. “We don’t have to…”

 

“I want to,” I tell him.

 

When the cotton falls away, he shudders. “So beautiful,” he murmurs, licking his lips. “You have no idea, the effect you have.”

 

“Show me,” I whisper. And he does. In his arms, I get what might be my first taste of real, raw passion. Sex with Gale was fine, good sometimes. But never like this. As I shatter, and shatter, and shatter again, everything I think I know about myself is turned inside out, and I am changed forever.

 

It’s fucking terrifying.

 

o-o-o

 

The last day of our tour is quiet, too quiet. The weather is unsettled, the group members tired. Even Haymitch has lost his sarcastic edge. Leaves me too much time to think about Peeta, sitting next to me. Playing with my fingers and humming in contentment. Too much time to panic.

 

How can I say goodbye to this man? This man who has opened my eyes and my heart, who has shown me the barest hint of a life I never even knew I was missing out on.

 

What choice do I have?

 

It's pouring rain when we pull into the stop at Waterloo Place, and in the soggy pandemonium of luggage unloading, it's easy for me to grab my small backpack and slip away unnoticed. I get into the first available cab and am whizzing up the Royal Mile within moments.

 

I don't look back.

 

o-o-o

 

I love Effie, I do, but sometimes I just need to get away. There’s a coffee shop near the rail station that’s a perfect escape, it’s outside of the touristy area and the patio is a great place to people watch.

 

A swarm of men in sharp black suits rounds the corner, heading straight towards me en route to the train. Slim-fit wool trousers cling appealingly to athletic bodies before spilling downward in perfectly pressed lines to where polished black shoes click on the cobbles. It takes a moment to realize that, no, the swarm of outrageously attractive men sauntering in the spring sunshine are not, in fact, men at all, but boys. Irish schoolboys - fifth and sixth years by the looks of them -  splendid in their crisp white shirts, perfectly tied windsor knots and shiny shoes. I shake my head at myself. Leering at a bunch of teenagers? I’m too old for that. In my defense, they’re much better dressed than any of the men I know. I mean, I assume Gale wore a suit to his wedding, but it would have been the first time. Even when he dragged me to his senior prom, he wore a dress shirt open at the collar and a leather jacket.

 

I bet Peeta wears crisp suits like these, though.

 

And just like that, my mood falls again. I miss him. I miss him so much. I’ve spent the past five days lying to myself, trying to make myself believe that the week we spent together was no big deal, a little fun, a lot of great sex, nothing more. But my heart, the frail, foolish thing, is singing another song. _I miss him_. I feel his loss acutely, despite only having known him a few days. I know I made the right choice, leaving him on that rainy Edinburgh street. His life is here, and mine, what’s left of it, is in Philadelphia, I guess. There’s no chance of a future for us. And no sense mooning over impossibilities. But it doesn’t mean I haven’t fantasized about hiring a car and driving to the coast, just to see him one last time.

 

It’s the melancholy that’s making me see things. In the middle of the group, a golden head stands out. For a split second, I’m sure the broad shoulders and narrow waist attached to them belong to Peeta. But it’s impossible, these are school children, Peeta is back in his hometown, living his life. But the crowd shifts, and I can see his face clearly, blue eyes shaded by lush golden lashes, the smattering of faint freckles that kiss his sunburned cheeks.

 

And I drop my teacup.

 

The clatter catches his attention, his head swivels until he meets my eyes. I’m helpless to look away from the myriad of emotions that play across his handsome face. Surprise, relief, joy and anger. But I’m sure my own face reflects only a single sentiment.

 

Horror.

 

He says something I don’t catch to the people he’s with, then changes course to walk purposely to where I sit, frozen and mute, heart pounding so hard that I feel light-headed. He covers the few yards in long strides. The sun catches his hair, crowns him in gold as he stands above me, a wide smile curling those sensual lips. “Katniss,” he says, in that molten sex voice that I hear in my head every time I touch myself. The soundtrack to my every recent fantasy. The lament of my regrets. “I didn’t know you were in Dublin! I thought you'd gone back to America! I’m so bloody happy to see you! You were gone so fast after the tour, I didn’t get your number, and you’re not on Facebook.” He’s reaching for me, and my body instinctively reacts, warmth pooling low in my gut. Which is what snaps me out of my stupor. I jump from my chair, angling myself so that the narrow café table is between us.

 

“Katniss?” His brows furrow in confusion, his hands dropping to slide into his pockets. “What's wrong?”

 

“You're in school?” It's barely a whisper.

 

“For another week, yes,” he says, still looking puzzled. As if it isn't a big deal. A big fucking deal. He's a child!

 

“You didn’t tell me you were so young.” I'm not certain I say it out loud until Peeta’s face twists, like he's tasted something unpleasant.

 

“I'm eighteen,” he says. “I'll be nineteen next month.” Eighteen! As if seeing him in that school uniform wasn't bad enough, the confirmation that he's a just a kid, that he's almost nine fucking years younger than me makes my stomach lurch. “Is that a problem? For the record, you never asked.”

 

“You’re a child!” I say, much more loudly this time, and his frown deepens. “I’m… shit, I’m a pedophile!” Peeta’s jaw tightens, and an angry flush streaks up his neck. He grabs my arm, not hard but not leaving me much recourse, and walks the two of us away from the patio and around the corner of the building, into a quiet alley.

 

“Knock it off,” he hisses, and for a moment I feel like a naughty child being chastised. Which just serves to piss me off, I'm the grown-up here! I wrench my arm away from him, and back up, crossing my arms in front of me. But the alleyway is narrow and I’ve only moved a step before my back hits the wall. He steps forward, close enough to feel the heat of his body, to feel the tension that radiates from him in waves. “I’m an adult, Katniss,” he says lowly, his words skating across my lips as he leans in. “Old enough to drink, to vote.” His next words brush against the shell of my ear. “Old enough to fuck you senseless.”

 

A full-body shudder rips through me, equal parts arousal and revulsion. He’s a child! I took advantage of a child! I push against his chest and he takes a single step back, still in my personal space, but giving me enough room to clear my head a little. “I’m, fuck!” I gasp. “I’m twenty-seven. I’m nine fucking years older than you are!”

 

“Eight,” he says, “and so what? Doesn’t change how I feel about you, or what we have together.”

 

“It's wrong-” I start, but he's having none of it.

 

“Bullshit! We’re both adults.”

 

“You lied to me!”

 

“I did no such thing,” he snaps, but I'm pissed now.

 

“You told me you owned a bakery on the coast!”

 

“I do!”

 

“You're a child!” His jaw tightens again, I can see the anger in his stormy eyes. Anger and hurt.

 

His hand reaches for me and instinctively I draw back, but he simply slips my phone out of my pocket. “What the fuck?” I sputter, but he's already unlocked it and apparently messaged himself.

 

“Where are you staying, Katniss?” he asks, handing my phone back. I want to tell him it's none of his business, but I just can't. The pain in his eyes compels me to tell him.

 

“My aunt has a house in Clontarf,” I grumble. Peeta nods.

 

“Come with me tomorrow,” he says.

 

“What? No, that's not a good idea Peeta.”

 

“Please, just do this one thing for me. Then I'll leave you in peace.” The pain in his eyes is shocking. Guilt eats away at me. It was cruel, I know, sneaking away like a thief in the night. I can see how much I've hurt him. He takes my silence as acceptance. “Meet me here tomorrow morning,” he says. “Half eight. Wear a jacket.” Then he spins on his heel and strides out of the alley.

 

o-o-o

 

I fight with myself half the night and all morning. I’m not going to show up. He’s not going to show up. I owe him a chance to explain. He’s a fucking child! By the time I make it to the café, I’m an absolute mess.

 

But an absolute mess wearing mascara and a cute top. I’m a hypocrite, on top of everything else.

 

Removed from the cold horror of discovering I’d been cavorting with a schoolboy, I have to admit to myself that seeing him again ripped down the walls I tried so hard to construct around my feelings for him. Damn him! Damn him for being gorgeous and sweet and Irish and a _toddler_!

 

He pulls up only moments after I arrive, riding a smallish motorcycle, blond curls sticking out from under a black helmet. In jeans and a leather jacket, golden stubble glinting in the thin morning light, he’s even more impossibly handsome. But it’s clear he hasn’t slept well, his wary gaze is ringed with faint purple. “I wasn’t sure you’d be here,” he says softly, pulling off his helmet. I don’t bother to tell him that until I got off the bus, I wasn't sure either. I simply shrug. He dismounts; I pretend I’m not checking out his ass in those snug-fit jeans. But he merely pulls a second helmet from his saddlebag, handing it to me without quite meeting my eyes.

 

“What’s going on?” I ask, but he shakes his head.

 

“Put on the helmet, Katniss, then get on the bike.”

 

“Don’t you have a car?” I’ve never ridden on a motorcycle before, and Irish streets with their too-narrow lanes, cobbles, and the whole driving-on-the-wrong-side issue are scary enough in a vehicle with four wheels. His lips twist.

 

“No. Let’s go, we have a long ride ahead of us.”

 

It’s madness, but I do as he asks.

 

I sit stiffly behind him, trying to put some distance between us, but as soon as the bike is in motion, I have no choice but to wrap my arms around him and hold on tight. And having him again cradled between my thighs provokes the most confusing rush of emotions. This is such a bad idea. Such a fucking bad idea.

 

We don’t talk as he pilots us out of the city, we simply can’t. The rush of wind makes that impossible. But from time to time as we pass through the suburbs, then out into the countryside, he’ll squeeze my knee to catch my attention, pointing out an old tower or a ruin, or just the way the sun catches the gorse on the mountainside, making the world glow in sunny yellow. In spite of what I’ve learned, he seems like Peeta, like the man I met in Scotland. He feels like comfort, and like home. When he points out a patch of bluebells clinging to the side of a hill, my heart hurts. I stop fighting with myself and lean into him, my helmet-encased head resting against his broad back, his warmth soothing me. He squeezes my hand where it wraps around his ribs. Acceptance.

 

About forty-five minutes later, we drive into one of those quintessential Irish postcard villages, narrow medieval buildings crowded along the street - though here they're painted in lush pastels - colourful bunting zig-zagging across the road and cars parked haphazardly everywhere. He circles a statue of what appears to be a young fisherman, then heads down an impossibly narrow alleyway, parking the bike in a tiny courtyard.

 

When he offers me his hand to help me off the bike, I take it gratefully. My legs are like jelly, and not just from the ride. He holds my fingers just a little too long, smiling wistfully. Then we rid ourselves of the helmets, and he leads me out of the alley, to stand in front of a building. It’s tall and narrow, like most of the buildings here are, but unlike most, it has an enormous plate glass window facing the street. The building itself is painted turquoise, and Mellark’s is spelled across the front in swoopy gold letters. “Welcome to my bakery,” he says softly, and with a hand on my back he ushers me inside.

 

The interior is even more charming than the exterior, and for a moment I can only gawk. Polished wood floors, pristine glass cases displaying a decadent array of goodies, and paintings on every wall that feel familiar. But none of that really means anything, does it? He’s in school, it’s clear that this isn’t really his bakery. It probably belongs to his family, and he works here on school breaks.

 

I turn my attention to the people working behind the counter, three of them. They smile warmly at me, but right away their expressions change as they catch sight of Peeta. They seem to stand a little taller, attempt to look a little busier. “Peeta,” one of them calls out. “We weren’t expecting you.” Well of course they weren't, it's Thursday, he’s supposed to be in school.

 

In school. Ugh. What am I even doing here?

 

“Just popping in for a bit,” he says with an easy smile. “Have a little business I need to attend to.” He heads towards a swinging door that separates front shop from back, but pauses with his hand on the frame. “Coming, Katniss?” Three heads snap to me in surprise, and I can feel my cheeks burning as I follow Peeta into a small, but modern industrial kitchen.

 

Here too, the workers stop and straighten, as if they’re trying to impress Peeta. It’s subtle, but I notice it. He greets each warmly by name. And I quickly realise that it’s not fear that makes them all snap to attention. It’s respect. Inexplicably, all of these people seem to respect him.

 

But it’s not really that inexplicable, is it? He carries himself with a confidence that goes beyond boyish ego. I can’t reconcile the businessman in front of me with the eighteen year old schoolboy I saw yesterday.

 

Peeta leads me to a small, windowless office at the rear of the building, and gestures for me to sit. Before I’ve even gotten comfortable, one of the women from the front shop has appeared with a pot of tea and a pair of cups. “Thanks, Dell,” Peeta says genuinely. The woman beams at him, then backs out of the office. I open my mouth to speak, but he shakes his head. “Hang on,” he says. “She’ll be back again.”

 

He’s right, she reappears a few moments later with a plate of food. I haven't been able to eat since I saw Peeta yesterday in Dublin, and my stomach clenches painfully at the yeasty, cheesy scent wafting from the treats. “You call me if you want anything else,” she says, and Peeta promises he will. With one last wink in my direction, she leaves and this time Peeta closes the door behind her.

 

“What was that all about?” I ask, trying not to be obvious in my coveting of the buns. He notices anyway, and pushes the plate in front of me.

 

“Irish hospitality,” he says absently as he pulls the bags out of the teapot. He knows, even without me ever having said anything, that I prefer my tea weak.

 

I know all about Irish hospitality, know that Delly would continue bringing us more food and more tea and just generally fussing if Peeta hasn’t shut the office door. But this is different. “Not that. The weird way she was looking at me. She… she winked!” He glances up, and a flicker of amusement crosses his face before the sadness creeps back.

 

“I've never brought a woman here before,” he says. I wrinkle my nose at the implication of that, I can’t decide whether it’s because I’m somehow special or because, as a freaking child himself, I’m the first ‘woman’ he’s been with.

 

“Why have you now?”

 

“Because I want you to see me. To see that I am exactly who I said I am. Now eat your bun,” he says, nudging the plate again, “while I tell you about my father.”

 

My heart breaks again and again as Peeta paints a picture of his life. The only child of a single father, he had a typical childhood right up until his father got sick. Terminal cancer. The man spent all of his remaining time preparing his young son to take over the bakery that had been in the Mellark family for generations. At only fifteen, Peeta traded rugby for accounting, friends for responsibility. He even spent his transition year working full time at the bakery, learning the ordering system, studying food safety compliance.

 

By the time his father died not quite two years ago, Peeta was running the bakery himself.

 

He has an uncle who deals with the day to day while Peeta finishes school, something he's doing because he promised his dad he would. But Peeta is the owner, and the one in charge.

 

It goes a long way to explain his maturity. He hasn't been a child in a long time. On the face of it, the story sounds unbelievable. But I know what my eyes are telling me. What my heart is telling me. He may be younger, chronologically. But he's the one with his life together. While I haven't really grown since high school, his life has leapt light years ahead.

 

I sit in silence, picking at the cheese bun - which is incredible but which I can't really enjoy - feeling like a pile of shit. The office door opens. An older man strides in, clapping Peeta hard on the shoulder. “Peet,” he says. “Wasn't expecting you today! Glad you're here though, I have those contracts for you to sign.”

 

“That's great, Dalton,” he says, taking the proffered papers, his lips moving as he skims the words. But then he frowns. “The wage is wrong,” he says, pointing.

 

“They're students,” Dalton says dismissively, and Peeta’s jaw tightens. It's fascinating to watch, even if I don't fully understand.

 

“That's not how we do things here. I pay everyone a living wage.” Peeta stands, moving around the desk to take my hand, pulling me out of my chair. “When you've redone the contracts, leave them on my desk. I'll pop in later to sign them before I head back to Dublin.” And with that, we walk out, leaving the older man behind.

 

We walk down the narrow cobbled street towards the waterfront, weaving among the tourists, past the harbour before finally stopping at an overlook right at the edge of the village. Peeta sits heavily on one of the empty benches, and drops his head in his hands. I lower myself beside him.

 

“You're a good boss,” I say softly, breaking the silence that hangs between us. He doesn't look at me.

 

“The bakery is more than just a job,” he says. “It's my father's legacy and my future. I have eight employees who directly depend on me, not to mention the suppliers and lorry drivers and pubs who benefit from my business too.” He lifts his head to look out over the water, and the weariness I see in his face speaks to a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders. Yet he's uncomplaining.

 

“I'm sorry,” I tell him.

 

“I’ve never lied to you, Katniss. I might be younger than you thought, but I am exactly the man I said I was, exactly what you saw in Scotland.” Wary blue eyes meet my own. “Can you say the same?” My breath catches. It's a valid question.

 

Katniss Everdeen is quiet and closed-off, reserved to the point of unfriendly. Difficult to get to know. Resistant to change. That’s not the woman who spent a week adventuring through the Scottish highlands. That woman smiled more, laughed more. That woman tried new things. That woman opened her heart, if only just a little. I shake my head, and his drops again to stare at his lap. The real Katniss Everdeen is the one who left this kind, gentle man standing on an Edinburgh street in the rain, without a backward glance.

 

Right now, I don’t like the real Katniss Everdeen very much.

 

He sighs. “My age isn’t really a problem, is it Katniss? It’s just a convenient excuse. You took off before you knew.” He’s right. When I really search my heart I know that the age gap between us is just a number. In many ways, in most ways really, Peeta is the more mature of us. The one with his priorities straight, with his shit together. Our ages don’t matter at all.

 

After what feels like an interminable silence, he asks, “Why? Why did you leave without a word? I thought there was something between us. Something real.”

 

“There is,” I whisper, startling myself with my honesty. He glances up at me, confusion in his expression, but also a heartbreaking flicker of hope. “You’re right,” I tell him. “I was a different person in Scotland. And… and I think I like that person better.” I swallow hard. “I like who I am when I’m with you.

 

“Then what’s the problem, Katniss?” The hint of frustration in his voice threatens to put me on the defensive.

 

“Your life is here, Peeta! And I live three thousand miles away!”

 

“You’re here now,” he says.

 

“For four more weeks,” I say, and sadness creeps in as I realize that I don’t want to leave him again, that even pissed off and hurt and, yeah, _young_ as he is, just his presence makes me feel alive. “And then what?”

 

“Why do we have to figure that out now,” he asks. “Why can’t we just take it day by day, see where things go. Live without a plan, without a safety net.” He reaches for me, cradling my face in his hands, and my eyes slip closed. “Live, Katniss. Be the woman you want to be.”

 

What’s left of my defenses melt away as he kisses me so softly it’s like a dream. My hands wrap around his wrists, holding him in place. Keeping him with me, at least for the moment.

 

I know the only thing really standing between us is my fear.

 

“Okay,” I whisper, the words hanging, fragile and afraid, in the space between our lips.

 

“Yeah?” he smiles. And at my nod, he kisses me again.

 

I’ve wasted so much time living in complacency, afraid of change. But this feels like a second chance. An opportunity to grow and mature, instead of staying safely stuck in the past. And the part of me that is not so brave as I could wish is glad that it's Peeta beside me as I step into the unknown.

  


\-----

 


	34. Birthday Cake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written in June 2016 for the tumblr blog everlarkbirthdaydrabbles. This chapter is rated E.

 

I should have just bought the damned red box from Betty Crocker. If I had, I wouldn't be standing over the saddest looking cake the world has ever seen, elbow deep in frosting that's supposed to be orange but looks more like one-too-many-tequilas. YouTube made this look so easy. Crap. I just wanted to make my boyfriend a damned birthday cake!

 

The same boyfriend who is standing in my kitchen, eyes wide with shock. Or horror, maybe?

 

“Katniss, what…?” he breathes, speechless in the face of my ineptitude. I can cook, but baking is quite firmly his domain. Obviously. 

 

I grunt, and cross my arms over my chest. “I just wanted to make you a stupid cake.”  I sound petulant, which I guess I am. But Peeta is a half hour early, his cake looks like it's already been chewed, and I have frosting in my hair. 

 

“You made me a cake.” He can't quite keep the laughter out of his voice, and I huff, embarrassed. But when I try to push past him he grabs my arm, pulling me back against his broad chest. For just a few moments he holds me tight as he shakes with barely restrained laughter. “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs and I groan. 

 

“I know, I shouldn't have.” I try to sound sarcastic, but really I just sound pathetic. 

 

“No,” he says, mostly tamping down the laughter, “it's sweet, thank you. I'm sure it tastes amazing.”

 

“Ugh, Peeta, stop. It sucks, okay. I get it.” When I push away from him I realize that orange-esque handprints now adorn the front of his once pristine white dress shirt. “Shit, I'm sorry!” I moan. Could I screw up this day worse?

 

He glances down but only shrugs, pulling me back against him. His smile is huge and there's a mischievous glint in his eye as he grasps one of my sticky hands, guiding a stained finger to his mouth. All of my annoyance vanishes as his tongue swirls. 

 

He releases the digit with a pop. “See,” he says, his voice deep and gravelly. “Delicious.”  I don't think he's talking about the cake anymore. Well then. 

 

Deliberately I dip my fingers in the bowl of orange glop, and holding his gaze drag them down his throat, following with my tongue, lapping up the sweet smear and the salt beneath. “Mmm,” I murmur against his skin. “Yummy...”

 

He swallows hard, the motion feels erotic under my lips. Then his fingers are coated with orange slime and tracing patterns over the swell of skin exposed by my camisole. My body is a canvas first for his wandering hands and then for his hot mouth. He rids me of my bra with a snap and a smirk, and I slump against the countertop. 

 

Smudges of orange frost the tips of his curls where my fingers scrabble for purchase, holding his head and talented tongue firmly where I want them. But when he pops the button on my jeans I push him back. 

 

Hunger swirls in his eyes as I hold his gaze just a moment, then drop to my knees. Peeta moans when I release him from his slacks, rock hard and twitching. For just a couple of beats I admire his cock, thick and beautiful. Then I wrap my lips around his head, my tongue mirroring his earlier actions, before bobbing up and down. 

 

His fingers are buried in my hair, holding me while he fucks my mouth shallowly, his whole body shaking with restraint. But he pulls away far too quickly, tugging me back to my feet and kissing me hard. “I need to be inside you,” he growls against my lips, and I can only whimper my consent. 

 

The cake, and dinner, are both forgotten, our clothing ruined and scattered across the kitchen. The bowl clatters to the ground when he bends me over the counter, spatters of orange fleck my bare legs. 

 

His teeth press patterns into my shoulder as he thrusts hard, sticky fingers snaking to rub tight circles against my aching clit. I swear and wail as he fills me again and again, his harsh pants and grunts filling my ear.  When he pushes me over the edge I can’t hold back my scream; it’ll be hard to face the neighbors tomorrow but I can’t find it in me to care. Peeta quickly follows, his shout rivalling my own.

 

We stay pressed against the countertop for a while, boneless and sated, until finally he stands, and looking around the destroyed kitchen chuckles, and I giggle too. Best laid plans…

 

We shower and feed each other the now cold lasagna naked in bed, all smiles and laughter. “Thank you for my birthday dinner,” he says, leaning back against the pillows, eyes closed in contentment.

 

“I’m sorry about the cake,” I admit, curling into his shoulder. But he grins.

 

“Katniss, I can honestly say I’ve never enjoyed a birthday cake more.” And I believe him.

 

“Happy birthday, Peeta.”


	35. The Life of a Victor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A tiny little bit of canon-compliant post-MJ Everlark. Written for @eala-musings, on the Tumblr blog @everlarkbirthdaydrabbles. Rated G

Peeta’s in our kitchen, humming in that off-tune way he only does when he’s really happy. I lean against the doorframe to watch as he moves with a grace he just doesn't possess outside of the kitchen. 

 

He's in his element, baking. He has an ease here, a fluidity that only comes from decades of practice. Every tool and implement is like an extension of his body. 

 

“Dada!” the blue-eyed moppet in my arms calls out and Peeta spins around. The joy in his eyes is unmistakable, even as he affects a mock scowl. 

 

“You're not supposed to be in here,” he admonishes, though his tone is light and lilting, designed to elicit giant two-toothed grins from his daughter, which it does. “You're going to spoil the surprise.” Her tiny arms windmill excitedly as he takes her from my arms. 

 

“She's one, Peeta. She hasn't got a clue that you're in here making her-”

 

“Katniss!” he interrupts, cupping our daughter’s little ears. “Don't say the c-a-k-e word!” And I laugh. As if Lucy would even understand. She's currently gnawing on the collar of Peeta's shirt, completely oblivious. 

 

“Can you take a little break?” He's been holed up in here for hours. 

 

“Sure.”

 

We walk through the rebuilt district, finding ourselves in the meadow. In the five, ten, fifteen years that have passed since the end of the war it’s turned lush and green. 

 

Only a small fountain marks it as a graveyard. 

 

The meadow has become a gathering place. A place where picnics are held and children play. A place of community. It’s a testament to our healing. Despite our losses, life has gone on, and now thrives in District 12.

 

And for us, two people who never should have survived, the most important symbol of our resilience sits among the tall grasses while Peeta tries to teach her to blow dandelion seeds into the wind.

 

There are no cameras capturing our daughter’s first birthday, no television specials, no fuss at all except for the cake that Peeta has spent most of the day creating. The cake that Lucy smashes with glee, laughing as she tries to feed it to her father by the fistful, until they’re both covered in chunks of chocolate and yellow frosting.

 

When Effie advised us to find the life of a victor I don’t think this is what she had in mind. Modest. Quiet. Unassuming. Almost anonymous.

 

I can’t imagine a more wonderful life.


	36. Midnight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little bit of modern AU PwP, written for @papofglencoe on the tumblr blog @everlarkbirthdaydrabbles. Rated E.

 

Midnight struck; somewhere in the distance he could hear a clock chime twelve. Midnight. He was officially twenty-one. 

 

This wasn't how Peeta Mellark expected to usher in his 21st birthday. There was no clamouring at the bar, all of his friends anxious to buy him his very first legal drink. No ribbing about being the last one in their group to reach that magical, if arbitrary, milestone. No excited chatter, planning summer adventures. 

 

Nothing but the distant chiming of a clock. Mocking him, stuck as he was, two weeks into a ten week sentence, plaster of Paris manacle holding him prisoner. Alone and miserable. 

 

It wasn't supposed to be like this. He had plans, huge plans for the summer. If not for his idiocy, he'd be climbing into Finnick's truck mere hours from now, probably hungover but brimming with excitement. Heading for a cabin in the woods, for a week of swimming and fishing and bonfires. Laughter and adventure. And Katniss. 

 

After years of pining, he'd decided: this trip was going to be his chance to tell her how he felt. He'd hinted in the past, but she was so sweetly oblivious. But deep in the woods she loved so much and buoyed by a little liquid courage, he was finally going to tell her. 

 

But a stupid pick-up soccer game, hours after his last exam, brought all those plans to a crashing, writhing, wailing halt. 

 

The ambulance ride, the endless scans, the surgery to stabilize his broken tibia, all passed in a haze of denial. Only once he was set up at his parents’ house, in his childhood bedroom, did the reality of his situation sink in. 

 

Two weeks of self-loathing later he was utterly alone at midnight. Staring at the stained ceiling of his torture chamber. Hopeless. 

 

His phone lay silent on the dresser, powered off against the inevitable flood of Facebook-guilted greetings. His parents slept soundly upstairs. His friends probably out partying without him. He couldn't be more pathetic if he tried. 

 

The sound of his half-open window scraping upwards startled him, snapped him out of his sulking. And then from the shadows emerged a dark head, ebony hair plaited in a braid he’d sketched a thousand times. “Katniss?” he rasped, voice rough from disuse.

 

“Did I wake you?” Her voice, smoky and sultry to begin with, was even more alluring as a harsh whisper in the darkness of his bedroom. She didn’t wait for his response, shimmying through the window and crossing the room to perch on the edge of his bed.

 

So many of his teenaged masturbatory fantasies had begun exactly like this; Katniss climbing through his bedroom window, crawling into bed with him. Of course, in his fantasies there wasn’t a five pound plaster cock-blocker between them. “What are you doing here?” he grumbled.

 

“It’s your birthday,” she said softly. “I wanted to celebrate with you.” She rummaged in the canvas bag she carried everywhere, finally withdrawing a battered grocery store box, and a bottle of cheap sparkling wine.

 

“You… really?” he asked, perplexed. “It’s midnight?”

 

“I wanted to be the first.” His heart lifted a little at her words, at the sweetness of the gesture. At being remembered, at least a little. He shifted to sit upright, pulling the sheets up to hide his leg and the shitty old athletic shorts which were the only things that fit over his cast.

 

She stuck a candle in the tinted lard sludge that Kroger called frosting, and sang to him in a voice so bewitching that he swore the world fell silent to listen. They drank the bitter bubbly straight from the bottle, sharing shy smiles, talking about nothing important. Her silver eyes shone in the lamplight, a speck of blue frosting clung to her lip like a cool kiss. She was stunning.

 

It might have been the best birthday of his life.

 

But the uncertainty, the anger and self-pity picked at the edges of his happiness, until it bled through. “Shouldn’t you be packing, Katniss? Don’t you leave in a few hours?” She faltered a little at his angry tone.

 

“I’m not going,” she admitted. Her answer shocked him.

 

“Why? You were looking forward to this trip, the woods are your happy place!” The last part slipped out unintentionally. He wasn’t sure he was ready to let her know just how much he’d been watching her. And for how long. But she shrugged, oblivious as always.

 

“I can spend time in the woods any time I want, Peeta. It’s practically in my yard.” It was true; the small house where she lived with her mother and sister was separated from the state park by only a rickety fence. She looked at him strangely, chewing on her lip. His eyes followed the path of straight white teeth, pink flesh and blue frosting.  She couldn’t quite meet his eyes when she continued. “I only wanted to go because you were going to be there.”

 

“What?” he said, stupidly. “Me?”

 

She scowled, crossing her arms over her chest, her small, pert breasts pushed upwards, and he shuddered. “Yes, you.”

 

“Why?” It was a small word, sad and laced with insecurity. She rolled her eyes.

 

“You really are clueless sometimes, Peeta,” she said. She shuffled closer to him, until their noses were only a hairsbreadth apart.  He was captivated by her thick black lashes, the way they brushed against cheeks flushed with wine. “I like you, okay?”

 

He grinned lazily at her awkward confession. “I like you too, Katniss.”

 

“No,” she huffed, frustration tinting her soft olive skin. “I  _ like _ you, Peeta. And I’ve been wanting to tell you for awhile.” Her eyes were fixed on his bare chest, her nostrils flaring as she breathed hard.

 

This was more than a wet dream come true. This was  _ every _ dream come true. Katniss Everdeen, the girl he’d been in love with since before he even knew what that meant, had just confessed to liking him.

 

Peeta Mellark was well known for his way with words. But in that moment speech failed him completely. So he did the only thing he could think of, the one thing he’d been thinking of since she first climbed through his window.

 

He kissed her.

 

Shock froze her for a moment before she practically melted, her lips softening and moulding to his, her body conforming to the contours of his own. She tasted like sugar and spice, and it was far more than nice. She moaned softly as he stroked her tongue with his own, explored each ridge of her palate, kissed her with a hunger born of years of unrequited longing.

 

Or maybe not so unrequited after all.

 

She guided him to lay back on his bed, wrapping herself around him. “Is this okay,” she asked as her knee brushed just slightly against his injured leg. He could only nod. She took control then, her lips and tongue teasing a path along his jaw, down his throat, across his torso. The broad expanse of pale flesh and sparse, burnished hair pebbled under her ministrations. When she reached the edge of the sheet she paused. “Still okay?” she whispered.

 

He could do nothing but nod again.

 

But when she pulled down not the sheet, but the waistband of his shorts, he gasped. “Katniss, what-” he started, then his ability to talk, to think, even to breathe was stolen by her small hand gripping his turgid cock firmly.

 

“It’s your birthday, Peeta,” she murmured, as if that answered everything.

 

“You don’t have to,” he protested weakly, and she smirked.

 

“I want to, Mellark.” She squeezed him, and he arched in blissful agony. Then her tongue tentatively flicked over the head of his cock and he moaned. “Shhhh,” she chastised, her breath hot against his flesh. “We really don’t want to attract an audience.”

 

He bit his fist, hard, as her tongue traced his length, long licks and delicate flicks, discovering each sensitive spot, figuring out what made him shake and grunt. Then her mouth descended, taking him fully into the heat of her mouth.

 

Her hand and mouth worked in unison, sending shockwaves of bliss rocketing through his body, bringing him to the edge with a speed that shocked him. “Katniss,” he warned, and she looked up at him through lidded silver eyes. “You’ve gotta stop, Sweetheart,” he begged.

 

She did, but only briefly. “I don’t want to stop, Peeta,” she whispered, and his name falling from her lips over his cock was the single most erotic image of his life. His head dropped back in surrender as she wrapped her lips around him again, bobbing and sucking, humming in pleasure. She varied her speed, fast and slow, frantic and languid, bringing him right to the precipice before easing him back, time and again until he was begging in hoarse whispers.

 

He felt her chuckle with her mouth full of his dick, the vibrations incredible. She tickled his thighs, stroked his hipbone as she hollowed her cheeks and sucked firmly. And just as he reached the edge again her small, cool hand pulled ever so gently on his sac.

 

He came so hard he saw stars, hips thrusting helplessly as she swallowed all he had to offer.

 

It was silent for a few moments, only his harsh panting and the infernal ticking of the hallway clock disturbing the peace. He was slightly disoriented, the entire encounter so much like his dreams that he wondered if it was even real. But her head resting against his hip, and her fingers tracing lazy designs on his thigh convinced him.

 

She was real.

 

When he could breathe he tugged her up his body, wrapping her in his arms. “Thank you,” he whispered, covering her face and hair in kisses of gratitude. Of love.

 

“Happy birthday, Peeta,” she replied, kissing him just lightly before snuggling into his arms again.

 

He was drifting, his entire body relaxed, his mind and heart at peace, when he felt her shift beside him. He tightened his arms. “Stay,” he begged. He could hear her smile in her whispered reply. 

 

“Always.”


	37. Snowbabies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon-compliant post-Mockingjay, Post-epilogue fluff. Set in my 'You'll Be in my Heart' universe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the Tumblr blog @everlarkbirthdaydrabbles. Rated G. Also, it's totally weird to be posting a winter-themed drabble when it's 30C outside...

Winter is hard.

 

Katniss and I have struggled with the winter since the end of the war. The cold, the dark, the lifelessness. The reminders of people we lost that cruel winter years ago. 

 

Having children changed things, particularly for Katniss. She stopped spending dark days in bed, staring at ghosts, and started playing - taking the kids skating, having snowball fights. I’m not saying winter isn’t still hard. But in Willow, and then again two years ago in Rye, she seems to have found the strength to persevere, in spite of the winter blues. It’s not easy, but she and I both have been able to really live these past few winters, instead of just surviving. Our kids have definitely helped us see winter differently.

 

But this winter is different. The weather has been particularly brutal, a relentless deluge of snow and bouts of freezing rain that have rendered the woods treacherous and the walk from Victor’s Village to town uncomfortable at best. I swear I haven’t seen the sun since December. 

 

And Katniss - my love, my best friend, my beautiful wife - is struggling this season. She tries to hide it, but I see it in the dark circles under her eyes, and in the way she often falls asleep while tucking Rye into bed at night. The darkness is taking its toll.

 

Today, however, as I clean the glass display cases in my bakery, sunshine streams through the windows, painting the front shop in streaks of winter-bright light.

 

I must wear my melancholy plainly; beside me Dashiel, my manager and right hand man, laughs. “Go home, Peet. I know you’re dying to.” He’s right, I am. The return of the sun after weeks of grey revitalizes me, the glittering snow irresistible. I turn to ask if he’s sure, but he laughs before I can even open my mouth. “Git,” he says. “Go home and play with those babies of yours.” More than my employee, Dash has been a great friend ever since I opened the bakery more than a decade ago. 

 

I smile and slip out into the cold with a spring in my step, despite the snow that slows my journey. An unexpected day. I can play with my children in the snow, try out the sled that grandpa Haymitch carved for them. Have lunch with my family. And then, when the kids have their afternoon naps, just maybe I can convince Katniss to lie down and  _ nap _ with me too. 

 

Even the possibility fills me with joy.

 

They’re outside when I walk through the village gates, rolling enormous balls of snow together. Rye sees me first, and grunts, toddling towards me on chubby snowsuit-wrapped legs. I pick him up and toss him in the air while he laughs, grey eyes gleaming in delight. Willow, as sure-footed and agile as her mother, joins us only moments later, climbing me like a tree to join in the hugs.

 

Katniss smiles as she saunters over, like dawn breaking after an endless night. Though she still looks tired, her cheeks are winter-kissed and her posture relaxed. “You're home early,” she murmurs, standing on tiptoe to press her hot lips against my frozen cheek. 

 

“I wanted to spend the day together,” I tell her over Rye’s knit cap and downy curls. Her liquid mercury eyes light up. 

 

“Well come on then,” she says, her fingers curling around my bicep. Willow jumps from my arms, landing as delicately as a cat in the deep snow to lead us back to the yard.

 

Rye grabs my face with slushy mittens. “Yook, Dada,” he says in that oddly deep voice of his that makes all of us laugh. He turns my head towards the snow lumps, wiggling as he does, the universal toddler signal for  _ down _ .

 

“What is it, Buddy,” I ask, setting him on his feet. He drags me to the smallest and most misshapen of the balls.

 

“Dat’s Wye!” he says proudly, patting the snow lump.

 

“That’s you?”

 

“We’re making a family of snowpeople,” Willow explains, working on her own, slightly taller snow mound. Though only seven, she’s methodical; already displaying an artistic eye that fills me with pride.

 

“I don’t see a Daddy-sized snowball,” I tell them with a grin, and Katniss actually laughs.

 

“We didn’t get that far,” she says. “But now that you’re home, you can make your own snow-daddy.”

 

We spend an hour together, rolling and stacking snow, carving out faces, adding branches for limbs, pebbles and pinecones make up their facial features. By the time we have a snow family of four standing proudly by our back door, Rye’s nose runs in constant rivulets and Willow has somehow lost her mittens. Time to warm up. “Shall we go inside for hot cocoa and lunch?” I ask, and the kids clamber through the snowdrifts and up the steps to be first in the house.

 

I turn to Katniss expectantly, but she just smiles. “You go on ahead,” she says. “I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.”

 

Puttering in the kitchen with my children is something I never imagined enjoying. I grew up working in the bakery’s kitchen with my parents, and while there were moments of fun, pleasant days here and there, it was mostly drudgery and often miserable. I had no desire to expose my own family to that. 

 

But when I returned to Twelve, Katniss and I started tentatively rebuilding first a friendship, and then more. And so many of those hard discussions happened when we were side by side in this kitchen, eyes and hands occupied with bread dough or cake batter. In those baking and cooking adventures, I not only grew closer to Katniss, I found a new joy in sharing, in creating together. Adding Willow to our family kitchen time just felt natural. And little Rye already wants to help.

 

He sits on the counter beside me, stirring a pot of soup with all of the concentration a two-year-old can muster. Behind us, Willow butters bread and sings a folk song in her sweet, clear voice. I can’t imagine being happier than I am right now. Even in the depths of winter, the joy and light of my family keeps me warm.

 

Rye’s attention span runs out right as the soup comes up to temperature, so I strap him into his highchair and set both kids up with lunch. Katniss still hasn’t come in, I wander over to the window that overlooks our yard.

 

She’s standing among our snow sculptures, when she notices me, she beckons. And I chuckle. Her hat is snow-flecked, her cheeks flaming from the cold, but even from here I can see the mischief in her expression.

 

I don’t even bother with a coat, joining her in our yard. “What are you still doing out here,” I laugh as she wraps her arms around me, pressing her icicle nose into my neck.

 

“Just putting a finishing touch on our snow family,” she says against my skin. I look at each snow lump in turn, nothing seems out of place. Until I get to the second-tallest figure, the one that’s supposed to represent Katniss.

 

The change is subtle, not really noticeable until you’re standing right in front of it. Balanced in the snowman’s twig arms is a snowball. No, not a snowball. Two snowballs, with pebble eyes and a little stick nose. A tiny snowman. 

 

A  _ baby _ snowman.

 

“Katniss?” I breathe, pulling back to look at her face. She bites her chapped lower lip and nods, just slightly.

 

I whoop and lift her, icy and wet, into my arms, spinning her and laughing. She laughs too.

 

And as I cover her frozen face with kisses I realize that I was wrong - I can definitely envision even more happiness for our family after all.


	38. Braids

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A tiny drabble, written for the tumblr blog @everlarkbirthdaydrabbles. Rated G

He never quite manages to keep the braids even, but she doesn't fix them. Peeta takes such simple pleasure from transforming her long black locks into glossy ropes, carefully tying the ends. She simply doesn't have the heart to redo them. 

 

And their little girl never minds. As far as she is concerned the sun rises and sets only for her father. 

 

The feeling is quite mutual. 

 

Katniss knew he would be a fantastic parent, but she never guessed he would be so hands on, so doting. He’s the king of bathtime, teller of bedtime stories, soother of scraped knees. He delights in every little thing they do, their dancing girl and laughing boy. Every gap-toothed smile they flash, every mashed up fistful of dandelions they bring him, every slip of paper festooned with pencil scratchings. 

 

She catches him watching their children frequently with awe and reverence, as if he can't quite believe they're real. As if he can’t quite believe that despite everything they’ve been through they’ve made it here, to this time and place of peace and prosperity. And love.

 

So Katniss watches from the doorway as her husband braids their little girl’s hair for school, his tongue poking out in concentration. And she smiles in contentment. Life is good again.


	39. Campfire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katniss Everdeen's annual camping trip isn't turning out anything like she expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written for the tumblr blog @everlarkbirthdaydrabbles and is rated E for explicit sexual content (and potty language)

This is not camping.

 

This little slice of dirt, surrounded by giant trailers and caravans, with their generators humming and televisions flashing. That’s not camping! Who comes out to the ‘wilderness’ just to watch TV anyway?

 

Nothing about this trip has gone according to plan. The tent I borrowed from Gale can hardly be called a tent at all, ‘pop-up coffin’ might better describe it. My sleeping bag fits in there. Sort of. But nothing else. He, of course, has the huge tent we usually share, and a mattress on a stand, because heaven forbid Madge soil herself by sleeping on the ground.

 

Madge.

 

I should have realized, when Gale suggested inviting a bunch of friends along on our annual trip to the woods, that what he really meant was he wanted to bring his new girlfriend. And the red flags should have been flying when, instead of our typical backcountry camping, he suggested a drive up site. “But it’s right on the lake,” he’d insisted. “We can swim and fish, it’s going to be amazing!”

 

I guess his girlfriend prancing around in high-heeled sandals and a bikini about as big as a bandana, while refusing to actually go in the water (it’s not chlorinated!) is his definition of fun.

 

Who am I kidding, of course it’s his definition of fun. He looks at her like she hung the moon.

 

I’m not jealous, or at least, not in the way you might think. It’s just that Gale and I have been friends since we were kids. A brotherhood of sorts. Partners in crime like that are hard to find. 

 

“What did that log ever do to you, Everdeen?” Peeta chuckles behind me. I lodge my hatchet in the end of a stump, and turn to scowl at him, but I'm pretty sure it's unconvincing. 

 

Peeta's been, by far, the best part of the day. When Madge declared the hiking trail  _ too long and too hot,  _ Delly was quick to agree. Gale and Jo were more than happy to escort their girlfriends back to camp. But Peeta insisted on continuing, just him and me. 

 

And it was amazing. I had so much fun wandering the woods with him. Chatting, or just listening to the steady racket of him stepping on every leaf and tripping over every root behind me. With anyone else it would have driven me insane. But it's hard to be annoyed with Peeta Mellark. 

 

We went to school together, he and I, but we never talked much, never ran in the same circles. That changed when his friend Delly started dating my friend Johanna a few months ago. Since then, we've gotten to know each other over weekend gatherings and pub nights with our common friends. 

 

And the more I get to know him, the more I get to see of his kind and generous nature, the more I like him. I don't make friends easily, but with Peeta it just feels effortless. He’s sort of snuck up on me. 

 

“I think that tree is dead now, Katniss,” he laughs. It’s true; instead of kindling, I’ve reduced it to matchsticks. I shrug.

 

“Doesn’t matter anyway. Everyone is going to the amphitheatre to watch a movie instead of having a bonfire.” Another reason I’m pissed off. A movie? Who wants to spend two hours watching Bridget Jones whine and stuff her face when we could stare into the flames, contemplate our existence in the cosmos while watching the sparks float into the night sky?

 

“Not a movie fan,” he asks, but before I can yell I see his smirk, and I know he’s teasing me. “It is a little strange,” he says softly. “To come out here, only to to be glued to a screen. As if we’re still in the city. Such a wasted opportunity.” He looks up into the dusky sky, streaks of orange split the shades of blue and violet. The first stars stealing through.

 

I shrug. “I like movies, honestly,” I tell him. “But… I don’t know. I look forward to this trip every year. And this year it’s just been…”

 

“Disappointing?” he supplies. He’s still looking up at the sky, but he looks sad. As if it matters to him that I’m disappointed in the trip.

 

I’m not, or not exactly anyway. True, it’s been nothing like I’d planned, nothing like I’m accustomed to. But there have been some bright spots. All of which have involved Peeta. “Not disappointing,” I murmur, and my soft tone makes him glance my way. “Just different.”

 

He flashes me a smile that seems so genuinely sweet with just the right touch of shyness that unexpected warmth rushes through me. “Different can be good,” he says. And I smile.

 

“Different can be good,” I agree.

 

He reaches for my hand. “Do you trust me?”

 

“Yes,” I answer without hesitation. Apart from my sister Prim, Peeta might be the only person I'm certain I can trust. He twines our fingers together and tugs me away from the campsite, pausing only to grab his backpack. We head down the dark path that I know leads to the lake. 

 

The moon hangs low in the sky, spilling across the water in glossy silver waves. He guides us along the shore, remarkably surefooted for a guy who couldn't traverse the woods in broad daylight without banging into every branch. Finally, he stops at a rocky outcrop where a tidy stack of split firewood waits. “What's this?” I ask. 

 

“Campfire,” he grins. And I laugh. But something warm flares in my chest, and I have to glance away before I do something stupid like kiss him. 

 

Peeta's a whiz with fires, coaxing a spark into a roaring flame within a few minutes. He rifles through his pack, pulling out an old camp blanket and spreading it on the rock. There's barely room for both of us, but I find I don't mind sitting pressed against him. I don't mind at all.   

 

We watch the flames for awhile, not really talking. Then he reaches into his pack, pulling out a bag of Jet Puffed marshmallows. “Not even homemade,” I tease. “You’re off your game, Mellark.”

 

He affects a mock wounded expression, and then reaches back into the bag for a tupperware container. When he pops the corner of the lid I melt. 

 

Homemade graham crackers. Of course.

 

He has thin bars of chocolate too, not the crappy stuff I usually buy, but good Ghirardelli chocolate, dark and rich. 

 

It's sweet, sitting side by side, toasting marshmallows in silence. Flickering firelight plays across his handsome face, highlighting his straight nose and sharp jaw. But it's his eyelashes that I'm a little fixated on, so pale you don't normally notice them, but golden in the fire’s amber glow. And so long I can't figure out how they don't get all tangled up when he blinks. 

 

He catches me staring, but he doesn't tease me. He just smiles. 

 

He's perfectly controlled, turning his marshmallow precisely until it's golden on every side. I rush; mine ends up partially charred and only half melted. “How do you do that so perfectly?” I mutter as I yet again blow out the sugar-fuelled inferno on the end of my stick. 

 

He laughs, just softly. “I think you'll find I'm a very patient man, Katniss,” he says, and his eyes twinkle. And I can't help thinking we're not talking about marshmallows anymore. 

 

Of course, when he slides his bit of liquified sugar perfection off the stick and onto a chocolate-ladened cookie, he holds it out for me to take.

 

There's something in the way he's looking at me, smiling eyes soft and affectionate, that emboldens me. I take a chance and lean in, guiding his hand towards my face, encouraging him to feed me the delicacy himself.

 

I hold his gaze hostage as I wrap my lips around the decadent treat, watching the firelight play across the dark oceans of his eyes. I groan as the rich chocolate and gooey sugar caress my tongue, and Peeta swallows hard. When I pull back to chew, strings of glistening white marshmallow cling to my chin. His nostrils flare, and he reaches for me, almost as if his hand has a mind of its own. 

 

He tries to wipe away the sticky bits but really only succeeds in making it worse. But I don't care; the feeling of his large, warm hand on my face is making my heart pound in the most thrilling way. My eyes slip closed, and when I can pry them open again his are fixed on my mouth, where my tongue collects the sweet chocolate remnants of our treat. I don't know how we got so close, his every breath whispers across my lips. 

 

He starts to pull his hand away, but I wrap my fingers around his, keeping him in place, nuzzling his hand just a little. “Katniss?” My name is a question, and I answer it the only way I know how. I close the gap between us. 

 

His lips are soft, softer than any man’s have a right to be. And after a shocked little half inhale, they move against mine eagerly. 

 

And it's incredible. 

 

The cookie gets tossed aside somewhere and his other hand tangles in my hair. I groan at the twin sensations of his fingers carding through my hair and his tongue stroking my own sensuously. Even his kisses are methodical, measured, as he learns what makes me whimper. He pulls back just an inch. “Is this real?” he pants. “Please tell me it's real.”

 

“God, I hope so,” I moan, then kiss him again. He smiles against my lips. 

 

His arms move to engulf me, warm and steady, even as he continues to kiss me. “Do you have any idea,” he whispers as our lips part just enough to drag in gulps of clean night air. “How long I’ve wanted this?” His lips trail along my jaw, nibbling at a spot just under my ear that makes me gasp. “How long I’ve wanted you?”

 

I shiver, his lips and his words ignite a fire low in my belly. I lie back on the blanket and tug him to follow, until he’s hovering over me, thick forearms braced by my head. His eyes are cautious, but his pupils are blown wide and I can feel his excitement pressed against my hip. “I want you too,” I whisper, and his smile lights up the night. 

 

Unlike other guys I've fooled around with, Peeta takes his time. He kisses me languidly, trailing his fingers over the soft skin of my belly, but no further, teasing me until I'm squirming and arching, wordlessly begging for more. I try to pull him into the cradle of my thighs, desperate to feel him hard where I need him, but he resists, smiling against my skin. “Patience,” he chides gently. “I've waited so long. I want to savour you.”

 

“Please touch me,” I whimper. His sharp little intake of air encourages me, I grab his wrist, loosely, so he could pull away if he really wanted to. But he doesn’t, letting me drag his fingers under my shirt until I shyly release them just below my bikini top. It’s all the encouragement he needs, that large, warm hand cups my breast and I moan.

 

“Oh shit, Katniss,” he gasps, his hand squeezing convulsively. “You are perfect. You are so fucking perfect.” Hearing those foul words fall from Peeta Mellark’s sweet pink lips might be the biggest turn-on of my life. Knowing it’s me making him lose control. 

 

I throw caution to the wind and wriggle my t-shirt off entirely. Peeta’s eyes are wide in the moonlight as he gazes down at me. I’m still wearing the simple bikini top I was wearing earlier at the lake. It's nothing special, not like Madge was wearing, and I certainly don't fill it out the way Madge fills out hers. But Peeta looks at me as if I'm something exotic. He shudders, a low groan rumbling from his chest. Then his head descends, and his tongue traces the slight swell of my breast just above my bikini. 

 

I thread my fingers through his soft golden curls, and surrender to his maddeningly slow exploration. His lips and tongue and teeth worship my small mounds before finally - finally - he nudges aside my top and exposes my tight nipples to the night air. When his lips close over one aching bud I swear I see stars. I moan and writhe, tug his hair and arch into him. I can feel his smile against my skin. 

 

My hand sneaks up under his shirt, finding taut muscle that flexes under my fingers. Peeta’s not ripped, but he’s strong and lean and hard in all the right places. He's perfect. 

 

His own hand slides up my thigh, slipping under my shorts to palm my ass. I'm so aroused, and seconds away from begging. 

 

The sound of laughter and splashing comes from down the beach and we both freeze. “Shit,” Peeta gasps, angling his body to shelter mine even though no one can see us here. Protecting me. Something warm flares in my heart. “I'm sorry,” he says, tugging my top back into place. “I shouldn't--”

 

“Can we take this back to your tent?” I interrupt. The look he gives me is smouldering. 

 

It's takes a few moments to smother the coals of our forgotten fire and toss our snack back into Peeta's pack. Then we're rushing hand in hand along the dark path, back to our site. 

 

We sneak up carefully, but the others haven't returned. Thankfully. No distractions. 

 

We crawl into Peeta’s tent, more than three times the size of my little coffin and with a comfy looking double-sized inflatable mattress in the middle. I ditch my boots, shoving my striped hiking socks into the toe, then sit on the edge of his bed before my nerves can get in the way, wrapping my arms around my knees. 

 

Peeta creeps towards me, chuckling. “What?” I ask. In answer, he grabs my foot, pressing a kiss to my toes as I squirm. 

 

“My favourite colour,” he says, stroking my orange-painted toenail. 

 

“I know,” I admit with a half smile. His expression darkens, with a last kiss to my ankle he sets my foot down and cups my face in those huge hands. And then he’s kissing me, not slowly, not any more. He kisses me with barely restrained passion, stealing my breath and my senses with every shocking sweep of his tongue. It’s electrifying. It's magic. 

 

This time, he’s the one who lays me back, and then he crawls between my thighs, the hard length of him pressing against me. I can’t help but groan, the twin sensations of his tongue thrusting in my mouth while he grinds against me are almost enough to send me spiralling over the edge already. And it’s not just that he’s so damned sexy, or so damned good at this. It’s that it’s him, Peeta Mellark. The only boy who ever caught my eye in high school, the one I thought about all through college.

 

I claw at his shirt, trying to pull it off, to feel the broad expanse of his sun kissed skin under my palms. He kneels over me, whipping the shirt off and affording me just a moment to appreciate his firm chest and sculpted abs, a masterpiece in the moonlight. He's beautiful, strong and broad and perfect. Then all of that glorious sun-kissed skin is pressed against me, warming me even as his lips and tongue and wandering fingers set my blood to boil. 

 

He’s so patient, so controlled in the way he touches me, but there's nothing boring about it. He reads me like a book, and each time his mouth and hands coax me right to the brink of begging, to the point where I think I can take no more, he somehow understands, pushing further, delighting me anew. 

 

My bikini top disappears into the dim, the rasp of his stubble on my sensitive skin in sharp contrast to the featherlight kisses he presses everywhere as he slides sinuously down my body. Then he's tugging my shorts and bikini bottom off, baring me to his greedy eyes. I pull at his shorts with far less finesse, and he acquiesces to their removal, but when I reach for him, aching to weigh the hot length of him, he retreats. “Not yet,” he whispers, and the sound is so raw, so needy, I know how desperately he wants me to touch him. 

 

Almost as desperately as I want him to touch me. 

 

He pushes me gently back, spreading my thighs wide. I can't even feel shy about what I think he's planning to do as he stares at me, unblinking and licking his lips. “Please,” I beg. 

 

He locks eyes with me just briefly, just  long enough for me to see his desire, desire I'm sure is mirrored in my own expression. But still he takes his time, pressing tickling kisses along my thighs, making me squirm. When those thick fingers finally part my folds, I almost come. “Fuck,” he groans, and I shiver. “You're so wet.” My retort is lost in a strangled cry of his name as his talented tongue laves a hot trail along my slit. 

 

Never once had I ever imagined Peeta's silver tongue painting masterpieces across my aching flesh. And now that I've experienced it I know I'll never forget. That the soft groans he presses into me as he thrusts into me with his tongue and laps up my arousal will be the soundtrack to my every future fantasy. Every hot flick of his tongue guides me higher, higher than I've ever been. His lips curl around my sensitive little nub and he hums; I can do nothing but wail invocations to the nylon sky as the rapture rises up to claim me and I'm forever changed. 

 

I'm still whimpering and pulsing with the last waves of the most spectacular orgasm of my life when he crawls up my body, pulling my boneless limbs into his warm embrace. “That was so fucking hot,” he murmurs against my temple. I can feel him hard against my hip, a bead of pre-come slick against my skin. I want him. I want more. 

 

“Please tell me you have a condom,” I pant, and he nods, pushing himself up onto his knees. A shaft of moonlight illuminates his cock, proudly jutting out, long and thick and mouthwatering, as he shuffles not to his discarded shorts for his wallet, but to a side pocket in his backpack. The same backpack he'd packed for our campfire. 

 

Only when he returns to me does he seem to realize the implication. “I, uh. I didn't mean… I mean, I wasn't planning--”

 

“I'm glad you have them,” I tell him, pulling him back down for another blistering kiss. “I want you, Peeta.”

 

His teeth glow white in the dim as he grins. “I've waited years to hear you say that,” he says. At my incredulous expression, he chuckles. “You have no idea, the effect you have.”

 

I have no answer for that, so I kiss him. I've always been better with actions than words. 

 

He pulls back to sheathe himself, then crawls over me. His eyes are almost electric in the dim, huge and excited. And even still he's infuriatingly patient, taking himself in hand, teasing me with his latex-enrobed tip until finally I grab his ass and pull him against me. I moan at the feeling of him nestled between my folds, not entering me, not yet. Just sliding in all of the wetness. He must like it too, because he swears softly under his breath and thrusts against me. 

 

Peeta kisses me softly, tracing my lips with his tongue as he rocks with me, each deliberate stroke making me gasp and mewl. 

 

Finally, after a groaning, shuddering eternity, he shifts and positions himself at my entrance. He's big, and it's been awhile, but I'm so turned on and he's so controlled. He fills me in one long stroke, and I feel everything in me stretch - my body to accommodate his, my heart with a swell of affection for this man, this kind, beautiful, gentle man. 

 

When he's completely buried in me he stops, head tipped back, eyes closed. I can feel the tension in his body, see how his neck muscles strain, sharp in the moon’s silver glow. “What's wrong?” I whisper. 

 

His eyes flutter open, hooded and lust-hazed. “You feel so good,” he groans. “I just want to freeze this moment and live in it forever.”

 

That stirring is back in my chest, warm and curious. I want to tell him okay, that I'll allow it. The idea of being with Peeta this way forever is awfully appealing. “Please move,” I whine instead. 

 

His face lights up, a cocky smirk replacing the awe. “You want me to move?” he teases. “Like this?” He pulls back achingly slowly, until just the tip of him is still inside me, and I wrap my legs around his thighs, trying to prevent his escape. His smile only widens. “Like this, Katniss?” He's pushing in and pulling out, just a fraction of an inch at a time, just enough to drive me absolutely mad. “Is this how do you want me to move?”

 

“Hard,” I groan. “I want you hard.” I swear he laughs, pulling out completely, teasing me again with just the tip of his dick, tracing my sensitive folds. 

 

“I don't know,” he says. “I'm pretty hard already.”

 

“Dammit, Peeta, I want you now,” I growl in frustration, and the amusement in his expression morphs to something more carnal. 

 

This time he fills me in one hard thrust, and I cry out. His moan is softer, but just as passionate. 

 

This time there's no teasing, no slow exploration, no caution. This time he sets a blistering pace, and I love it. He kisses me, swallowing my cries, grunting against my lips as I arch, gripping fistfuls of his sleeping bag and locking my legs around his back. 

 

I'm already climbing when I hear it, the telltale high-pitched prattle of Madge heading back to camp. Peeta hears it too, but he doesn't stop, doesn't even slow. Instead, he reaches up to cover my mouth with one huge hand, his lush lips next to my ear. “Can you be quiet, Katniss?” he whispers. 

 

I lock eyes with him, molten blue irises almost obscured by flat black pupils. And I shake my head, helplessly. I'm not usually so loud. But sex has never been this good before. And even knowing our friends are returning I don't want to stop. I'm not sure I could. 

 

His hand stays clamped over my mouth, muffling my moans, as he pants filth into the crook of my neck. Angelic Peeta Mellark is a dirty talker. I never would have guessed, and it's the hottest thing imaginable, his words in my ear and his hand on my mouth, and the rough way he slams into me over and over. 

 

I bury my hands in his downy curls, tugging firmly and he bites my shoulder. It's so hot and so unexpected, my orgasm hits me like a shockwave, radiating pleasure from my core to every inch of my body. 

 

Peeta slows, prolonging my climax, wringing every drop of pleasure from me until all of my muscles slacken. Only then does he remove his hand. 

 

He's still panting in my ear, only now the words are soft, sweet. “You are so beautiful,” he murmurs. “So much better than my fantasies.” And when he comes, it's with a shuddering whimper of my name. 

 

We lay together, boneless and breathless for a long time, listening to the crickets’ lament and the low murmur of our friends chatting just a few yards away before Peeta pulls back just enough to discard the condom. Then he wriggles the sleeping bag free to wrap around us both and gathers me in his arms again, kissing me softly until I fall asleep. 

 

o-o-o

 

Birdsong filters through our nylon ceiling. A silver-grey dawn is fast approaching. I try to wiggle out of Peeta's arms, but his grip tightens. “Don't go,” he murmurs, mostly asleep, and my heart clenches. I know he doesn't mean it. Everything is so much clearer this morning; the way we snuck back to his tent like thieves in the night, how he kept me quiet, swallowing my moans even as he pumped into me. This is just a secret dalliance. It’s a cliché, really, the two single people in the group hooking up. Expected, I guess, but temporary. Better to slip away now, save us both the mortification of a walk of shame in front of our friends. 

 

“The others will be up soon,” I whisper. I’ve never had a one-night stand before, but I’ve been roommates with Johanna for years, I know how they’re supposed to go.

 

His sleepy blue eyes search mine, the flare of pain unmistakable. Bewildering. “Katniss?”

 

“I, well. I thought you’d want me gone by then.”

 

“Why on earth would you think that?” I try to scowl at him, but it's hard to to appear indifferent when his very naked body is pressed against my equally bare skin. When I can still taste him. I shrug. 

 

“I guess, I mean, well. You didn't want anyone to know. And I get it.”

 

“Katniss,” he breathes, all vestiges of sleep gone. “I didn't want the others to hear us last night because I know how private you are. How… pure.” He shakes his head. “This… I want so much more than just one night with you.” He cups my cheek in one large, rough hand. “You have to know that? I'd like to tell the planet about us. I would put it on a billboard or tattoo it across my chest, if you'd allow it.”

 

He's so earnest. So open. My doubts start to melt away. I want that too, to see where this could go. To see more of his smile, hear more of his laugh. “Okay,” I murmur. 

 

“Okay?”

 

“Maybe not the tattoo,” I smile. “But the rest… I'll allow it.”

 

“Yeah?” he grins. 

 

“Yeah. I really like you, Peeta.” His soft laugh dances across my cheek as he tilts my face to kiss him. 

 

“I really like you too.” And snuggled together, we slide back into slumber. 


	40. Flowers for my Girl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written as a drabble challenge on Tumblr, prompt: flowers. Modern AU. Rated G.

He takes entirely too long at the airport flower shop, moving from bouquet to bouquet, looking for the right one. Though Peeta Mellark isn’t usually indecisive, he wants the flowers to be perfect. He wants everything to be perfect, for  _ her _ . It’s a special day, after all. It’s not every day you get to meet the girl of your dreams for the first time.

 

And he’s been waiting for this day for so very long. 

 

The florist grins as he wraps the stems in paper. “Special lady?” he asks, and Peeta can’t resist pulling out his phone to show the older man the picture she’d texted him last night. “She’s a beauty,” he says, and Peeta nods. He’s already memorized every pixel of the photo, traced every curve and line with his eyes. Thick, jet-black hair, smooth olive-tinted skin, plush lips puckered in just a hint of a pout. She’s the most gorgeous thing Peeta has ever seen. He’s absolutely head over heels in love with her, and they haven’t even met in person yet.

 

But today is finally the day.

 

Peeta pays for the flowers - larkspur and lavender roses - then heads out into the dawn. His steps are brisk as he walks to the taxi stand, humming happily and slightly off-tune.

 

They’d been planning this day forever, had set a date months ago. But her eagerness aligned with his last-minute business trip, and now he was hurtling from the airport to a downtown campus, too excited and too nervous to even notice his surroundings.

 

The building looms above him, modern steel and glass, brightly lit. She’s on the sixth floor, he rushes through the polished lobby and presses the elevator button repeatedly, nerves superseding common sense. The upward ride seems to take forever, his palms sweat and his breathing quickens. Excitement battles with apprehension.  _ Will she like me? Will I be good enough for her? _

 

He walks the long hallway with a hushed reverence, knowing he’s approaching a meeting that will forever change his life.

 

Her door is slightly ajar and he pauses on the threshold, drinking her in. She’s staring out the window, bathed in the golden glow of the rising sun, fine bone structure silhouetted against the glass. Her long black hair falls in a sleek curtain halfway down her back, toned calves peek out from under the hem of her pale blue gown.

 

She takes his breath away.

 

“Katniss?” he whispers, and she turns, a soft smile tugging at those lush peach lips.

 

“Peeta.” Her lips form his name almost soundlessly, only the barest puff of air carrying the consonant. In a half-dozen silent steps, she crosses the room, throwing her arms around his neck, her small, soft body pressed to his. He sighs, the tension he’s carried for a day and a half melting in the warmth of her embrace. He pulls her tight and buries his face in her sweet hair. “You’re here,” she murmurs, her lips just brushing his throat.

 

“I’m sorry I couldn't get here sooner.” His words are coloured with sadness, with regret. Katniss pulls back, smiling softly, and reaches a small hand to cup his face, fingers brushing the stubble that speaks of his long journey.

 

“You’re here now, that’s all that matters.” 

 

“These are for you,” Peeta says, suddenly shy, and presses the flowers into her arms. Her gorgeous silver eyes light up in pleasure, and he smiles as she buries her nose among the blooms.

 

“Thank you,” she whispers, then grasping his hand, she leads him across the small room to the bed, narrow and rumpled. He swallows hard as she sets the flowers aside and encourages him to perch on the edge of the mattress, standing between his knees. “Are you ready?”

 

He nods, and she smiles, stepping away from him, reaching into a tall wheeled cart beside the bed.

 

Peeta’s heart pounds so hard he’s worried it’ll seize, worried he’ll faint even before the big moment arrives. But he doesn’t. And then Katniss is setting her in his arms, tiny and warm and surprisingly solid.

 

_ Her _ . His daughter.

 

Tears blur his vision as he gazes upon the face he’s imagined and dreamed of and sketched a thousand times, peeking out of a striped blanket. He reaches a shaky finger out to stroke her cheek, her skin the softest velvet. Her tiny brows furrow at his gentle touch and he laughs, startling her. When her wide eyes fly open he laughs again, the shining orbs that regard him with suspicion reminding him so strongly of her mother. 

 

“So what do you think, daddy?” Katniss breathes, settling beside him.

 

“She’s even more beautiful than the pictures you sent,” he says, unable to drag his eyes away from the six pounds of perfection cradled against him. “I can’t believe I missed her birth.” Her due date is still four weeks away, and the labour had been fast; though he rushed as soon as he got the call, baby Mellark made her entrance before Peeta had even gotten to the airport. Still, he’d caught a red-eye home, unwilling to miss even a minute more than he had to. His eyes well up again, and Katniss leans against his shoulder.

 

“You’re home now, we’re together.” Together, his family. He wraps an arm around Katniss, holding the two most important people in his life close. “I wouldn’t let anyone else come visit,” Katniss says. “I wanted you to meet her first.”

 

They sit in silence, gazing upon the tangible proof of their love. Their tiny, perfect child. The girl of his dreams.


	41. Aperture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Modern AU. Rated T+ (mostly for language, I have a potty mouth)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written on Tumblr as a birthday gift for the fabulous @burkygirl.

 

[](https://68.media.tumblr.com/c78bd3bd7838b5068a0f1440b4344653/tumblr_inline_ou9juhLjwU1sd8t5x_540.jpg)  


 

I shift my bag further up on my shoulder as I fish around in my pocket, finally extracting a deckle-edged piece of notebook paper and squinting at the messy scrawl on it.   
  
Panem Arms, 12E.   
  
This is a swankier hotel than I’ve ever been in before, the carpeting under my feet plush and  pristine, high quality reproductions in expensive frames lining the corridor.   
  
The room I’m looking for is in the corner, the door propped partially open, revealing an opulent space with a full wall of windows. My bag thumps against the heavy wood as I shove the door open a little wider, and a voice floats towards me from somewhere deeper in the suite. “Peeta? Is that you?”   
  
“Yeah,” I call back, wandering fully into the room. It’s bigger than my entire apartment, tastefully furnished in sleek leather and warm wood. It occurs to me for half a moment to wonder how she can afford this place, before I snicker to myself. There’s no way Johanna Mason has paid a dime. She’s a master of getting people to give her whatever she wants.   
  
Which is why I’m here.   
  
Setting my bag and tripod on a glass table that probably cost more than my tuition, I wander over to the windows, a full wall, floor to ceiling. The view is phenomenal, but more importantly, the light flooding in this afternoon is gorgeous, warm and golden. Say what you will about Johanna, she’s got a great eye for photography locations.   
  
“Find the place okay?” I spin at the sound of Jo’s voice right behind me, the thick carpeting having masked her footfalls, allowing her to sneak up on me. Then I do a double take. I’ve known Jo for more than three years, we’ve had classes together at Panem U and have a few mutual friends. I should be accustomed to her habit of wandering around only barely clothed by now. “Put your tongue back in your face, Breadboy,” she smirks.   
  
“Put your tits back in your top, Mason,” I chuckle, and she laughs too.   
  
“Hey, I paid a fortune for these,” she says, cupping what are indeed a very nice pair of boobs encased in two nearly transparent lace triangles. “I’ve gotta get my money’s worth.” I roll my eyes. Jo’s okay, but so not my type.   
  
“Is that what I’m supposed to be photographing you in?” Johanna is a fashion design major, and I’m here to do a shoot of her latest clothing project. I’m still not certain how she managed to convince me to give up my Saturday afternoon, but here I am.   
  
“You’re not photographing me at all,” she says, sashaying away towards a door at the other end of the room. “I already told you, my roommate is modelling. I don’t need Professor Plutarch pulling his pud over pictures of me.” I shudder a little at the thought.   
  
“But it’s okay for him to leer at your roommate?”   
  
She shrugs. “Brainless is a science major, she’s never going to meet the man.”    
  
“You’re cruel, Jo,” I call after her retreating figure, and she pauses, glancing back at me over her shoulder.   
  
“She fits better in the outfits, okay?” Jo screws up her face in distaste. “She’s got an ass like a twelve-year-old boy, and vegan leather is expensive.” I have to bite my cheek not to laugh out loud. Classic Jo.   
  
I set up my tripod so that the window will be the backdrop for our photoshoot, and lose myself in erecting the light stand and reflectors I brought along. Though I’m technically a business major, my minor in photography gives me ample excuse to buy nice studio equipment.   
  
When Jo emerges from the other room again some ten minutes later, I’m making a last few adjustments with my handheld light meter. This time, she's a whirlwind of sound and sputtering, a flannel shirt tossed over her shoulders, though still not buttoned up. “Forgot the damned bustier,” she groans, twirling a set of keys around her finger.    
  
A soft snicker catches my attention and I glance up from my work. Standing beside Jo is a ghost, a dream, a vision that can’t possibly be real. 

 

Katniss Everdeen.

 

Katniss Everdeen, the girl I’ve had a crush on since I was barely out of diapers, star of practically every wet dream I've ever had. Katniss Everdeen who, last I knew, was still back in our hometown, attending the local college. I haven't seen her in sixty-seven days, since the last time she came into my family's bakery before I left for my senior year of school. She ordered two cheese buns, and I'd managed about ten words in her presence, an eight word improvement over the previous visit. 

 

Not that I was counting.

 

“Breadboy, this is my roomie--”

 

“Katniss?” My voice is an embarrassing little squeak of awe, and she nods at me. I think I’m going to die.

 

“Hey, Peeta,” she says in that smoky smooth bourbon voice, nonchalant, as if we’ve been buds forever. I’m definitely dead.

 

I was on the debating team in high school and served as class president. I excel at making presentations and have been described as charming and persuasive. I am, by all accounts, a confident, articulate man. Except where Katniss is concerned. I’ve always been terribly intimidated by her, by that scowl and those sharp silver eyes, not to mention the omnipresent boyfriend she had all through high school. Though the boyfriend has been gone awhile, my awkwardness around Katniss has only gotten worse. As more and more time passes without me being able to conjure up a word, it gets harder to think of anything I could possibly say or do to change that. And it certainly doesn’t help that she’s incredibly hot. Just her presence turns me into the shy little boy I used to be.

 

“You know each other?” Jo’s stops her stomping long enough to look between Katniss and me with a confused expression. “You don’t have any classes over in our building?” she says to Katniss. 

 

“Peeta and I grew up together,” Katniss says, while I stand there, mouth open like a fish out of water.

 

“Oh did you?” An almost evil little smile curls Jo’s lip. I have no doubt she can see fifteen years of unrequited longing for her roommate written all over my face. Hell, they can probably see it from Mars. “Well I left the top part of Brainless’s outfit in my car, so she’s practically naked under that robe.” I hazard a glance at Katniss; she’s shooting daggers at a clearly bemused Johanna. “You two entertain each other while I’m gone.” Then Jo winks at me.

 

I’m never going to live this down.

 

But it doesn’t matter, because Katniss Everdeen is standing in front of me, wearing a thick, white hotel robe, her lush ebony hair spilling in soft curls over her shoulders. Though I’ve known her most of my life, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her with her hair down like this. It’s exquisite. My hands itch to touch her, to paint her, to capture the way the amber light crowns her in fire.   
  


She clears her throat; only then do I realize I've been gawking. “I, uh. I thought you were going to college back in Twelve?” I ask, my voice a little more even. 

 

“Prim’s here this year,” she says, referring to her little sister, the reason she stayed behind in our dinky hometown while everyone else got out of there. Katniss’s dad died when we were in sixth grade, and the whole town knows her mother isn’t right in the head. So it shocked no one when Katniss - smart, studious Katniss - stayed in Twelve instead of accepting any one of the scholarships she was offered. She’s been more of a parent than a sister for years. “She got a full scholarship, so I transferred here from Seam College.”

 

“You’re letting Prim live with Johanna?” Katniss scowls, and I have to fight not to physically recoil. For five-foot-nothing, she’s awfully scary.

 

“Absolutely not,” she says, and I grin, she’s so indignant, like I’ve insulted her common sense. “Prim is in the freshmen dorms. I wanted to be nearby, so my cousin introduced me to Jo.”

 

“What’s it like, living with Jo?”

 

Katniss wrinkles her nose. “She’s a little clothing-averse.” I bark out a laugh, and Katniss glances up at me through her eyelashes. How have I never noticed before how thick and full they are? “But she’s tidy and she pays her bills, so I can’t complain much. How, um, how do you know Jo? I thought you were a business major.”

 

Something hot flares in my gut at the idea that Katniss Everdeen knows what I’m majoring in. “I, uh, wow, yeah. I am. But I’m minoring in photography.” She nods.

 

“Makes sense, you’ve always been so artistic.” I have been, but I’m shocked she noticed. She frowns. “Well of course I noticed, you designed the yearbook cover in senior year, and your dad’s bakery is full of your paintings.” My face heats up as I realize I said that out loud. How can I simultaneously be unable to speak and unable to prevent myself from speaking to this girl?

 

This woman.

 

It takes me another awkward moment to answer. “Uh, right. Sorry, that came out wrong.” I shake my head, ready to slink away and hide behind my camera. But then Katniss does something completely unexpected.

 

She smiles at me.

 

It’s a small smile, more bemused than anything. But it’s glorious. And it’s for me.

 

And I relax a little. “Sorry,” I mumble again. “I wasn't expecting…” I trail off, waving my hand vaguely. 

 

“Oh,” she says, expression shuttering. “Right. You were probably expecting Glimmer.”

 

“Who?” I ask, distracted by the annoyance I can see creeping onto her beautiful face, how this perfectly kissable little line forms between her brows. 

 

“Jo’s friend. The blonde?” I shrug, Johanna has a ton of friends and I'm sure half of them are blonde. Katniss huffs. “She knows who you are.” There's something in the tone of her voice that snaps me out of my stupor. 

 

“I thought Jo was going to be modelling her own designs actually.”

 

“She has a boyfriend.” Now I'm the one wrinkling my forehead. Why would I care who Jo is with this week?

 

“What?”

 

“Yeah,” she shrugs, looking at me sympathetically. “A few months now.” That pity on her face confuses the hell out of me. Surely she doesn't think…

 

“We’re just friends,” I blurt. 

 

Katniss cocks her head curiously. “But you were hoping…?”

 

“No,” I laugh. “Johanna’s not my type.” I run my hand across the back of my neck, roughly, fighting the heat rising there. “I was actually dreading this, until you walked in.” Katniss still looks confused. Fuck it, I need to grow a pair. “I've always wanted to talk with you, Katniss.”

 

Silence stretches between us, twists my guts. Finally she laughs, just softly. “Seriously, Peeta? I've come into your father's bakery twice a week all summer and every break since high school finished. You could have talked to me any of those times.”

 

I feel like an idiot. “I know.”

 

“Or before, at school, or at the lake, or at one of Madge’s parties-”

 

“I know.” 

 

“Then why?” I shrug helplessly. Her lips purse. “You know, you never had any trouble talking to anyone else, mister senior class president.”

 

“Well yeah, but none of them were you!” 

 

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

 

“Fuuuck,” I groan, tipping my head back. This is why I don't talk to Katniss. She turns me into a simpering idiot. “I mean they didn't matter, none of them. And you do.” I sigh. “I like you, okay?”

 

She freezes, almost unbreathing, for what feels like an eternity. Then a slow smile steals across her face. “Really?”

 

“Yeah.” I return her smile. It's a relief to finally tell her, and the fact that she hasn't run screaming seems like a good sign. 

 

Behind us, the door crashes open. “Let's do this,” Jo barks, stalking towards Katniss and towing her to the other room again. 

 

They're back just a couple of minutes later. I’m making a few adjustments to my set up when I hear them approach. Jo is again in only a bra, but I barely notice. Because Katniss isn’t wearing that plush white robe anymore. 

 

I am thanking every deity I've ever heard of - and a few I invent on the spot - for Jo’s taste in clothing right now. Because Katniss, gorgeous Katniss, star of nearly every wet dream I've ever had, is wearing little more than a cocktail napkin. 

 

A white vegan leather cocktail napkin. 

 

Though Jo joked about Katniss’s participation being an afterthought, it's clear these pieces were made to her measurements. They fit like a second skin, and the ivory colour makes her olive skin glow. The top is little more than a structured undergarment, the skirt a deep breath away from indecent. And wrapped around her legs, stretching from ankle to thigh, the kind of boots that make adolescent boys wake up stuck to the sheets. 

 

Grown men too. 

 

“Holy fuck,” I say under my breath. 

 

“Not bad, eh?” Jo preens. I know she's talking about the clothes. 

 

I'm not. 

 

I can barely breathe, barely even blink. But Katniss looks uncomfortable under my ravenous stare. “Well,” I rasp in a voice that's not my own. “Shall we begin?”

 

o-o-o

 

She’s gorgeous, wrapped in that skin-tight faux leather and bathed in the afternoon glow. But fifteen minutes into shooting, it’s just not working. Everything about her posture is rigid, self-conscious, the angles wrong, her expression pained. Johanna paces somewhere behind me, making aggravated little noises. Though I try to direct Katniss to position her head or hip differently, nothing seems to help. I’ve done a lot of shoots over the years, worked with kids and pets and all sorts of subjects that are hard to pose. But none have been more difficult than this, and it makes no sense. Katniss is beautiful, she has to know that, and usually so self-possessed. My frustration mounts, none of this is how I envisioned. 

 

“Dammit, Brainless,” Jo’s voice rips through the room, startling me. “You're not even trying. If I wanted a freaking mannequin I’d have bought one! You’re as stiff as a coathanger, you’re making my sexy designs look like Quaker wear!” 

 

With each of Johanna’s barbs, Katniss’s shoulders climb higher, her frown deepens. Her fingers are white where her hand is wrapped in a death grip around the window’s edge. “Jo,” I warn, but she cuts me off.

 

“Do you want me to fail? Is this a jealousy thing because I’m hot?” she taunts, and Katniss bristles, anger flashing in her silver eyes.

 

“That’s it,” I growl, and though I keep my voice low, Johanna stops her tirade and looks at me, mouth partly open. “Go for a walk, Johanna, I can’t work with you disrupting my session.” 

 

“The hell, Mellark, this is my project,” she sputters, but I’m already shoving her towards the door.

 

“Don’t care, this is my shoot, and you’re killing my vibe.” At her hurt expression, I soften my own. “I’ll get you good pictures, Jo, you know I will. Trust me to do this my way.”

 

“Fine,” she grunts. “I’ll be downstairs at the bar. Don’t fuck this up, Breadboy.” She glances back at Katniss, as if she’s going to berate her roommate again, but I close the door between us, preempting any further insults.

 

For a moment I simply stand, face against the door, breathing away the tension that Jo’s interference caused. Then I turn back to Katniss.

 

Her fire is gone; she looks devastated. “Hey,” I say, all of my pique rushing away, replaced only with concern. I creep as close to her as I dare, she’s stock-still, looking out over the city, sky just starting to pinken.

 

“I’m not a model, Peeta,” she says quietly, still looking away. “I told her that, over and over. This isn’t me.” She gestures to the getup that clings to her curves like a second skin. “I’m bony and awkward and plain and this is such a stupid idea.”

 

I huff out a bewildered laugh. “Katniss, you can’t be serious. You are stunning.”

 

“I can’t do this,” she says, not a trace of self-pity in her voice.

 

“All you have to do it be you,” I tell her. “Unscripted.” Her lovely brow wrinkles. I reach out a tentative hand, slowly, as if with a spooked horse. But she doesn’t bolt. “Trust me,” I implore, wrapping a lock of her silken hair around my finger. And she nods.

 

I take my camera off the tripod and approach her again, needing the intimacy of being close, the serenity of hushed voices. I’ll get her comfortable with me with a few headshots, and get the long body shots Jo needs after. “Just relax,” I murmur as she watches me warily, arms crossed protectively across her chest. Gently, I guide her to lean a shoulder against the window. “Relax,” I breathe again, smoothing her ebony locks over her shoulder. “Tell me why Prim chose Panem U.”

 

Just as I anticipated, her expression softens, her eyes light with happiness. “They have an amazing pre-med program here,” she says, and pride is evident in her eyes and in her voice. As as she talks about Prim, about the one person I know she loves above all others, I raise my camera. I’ve shot off four or five frames before she even notices. 

 

Her expression darkens, and she raises an eyebrow at me. “Look,” I tell her with a grin, turning my camera around so that she can see the preview images on the back screen. Her breath leaves in a startled rush.

 

“How?” she whispers, toggling picture to picture with a shaking fingers. Each depicts her relaxed, smiling softly, bathed in gorgeous golden light, shadows emphasizing her fine bone structure. “You made me look pretty.” It’s so quiet, I don’t even know if she intends me to hear it.

 

But I do.

 

“You are pretty. The camera doesn’t lie.” She wrinkles her nose. But she’s smiling, just a little. And I laugh, a relieved sound. “Let’s try some longer shots.”

 

With my camera back on the tripod, I hold the shutter release loosely, not hiding it, but not making it the centre of attention either. We talk, and Katniss leans back against the window, relaxed and smiling. I just keep triggering the shutter. Every so often, I’ll reposition her, naturally, as easily as guiding a friend through a doorway. The faux leather pieces glow in the late light, curving over a jutted hip, sweeping over the soft swell of breast. With her guard down, each picture is perfect, sensual but with a purity that elevates them to something special.

 

For as many times as I’ve imagined myself interacting with Katniss, I couldn’t have pictured this. How natural it feels to speak with her, how right. She’s everything I fantasized, and yet so completely different too. I’d always thought she was intimidating, but I can see now that she’s simply reserved, even a little shy. And in the tranquility of our little hideaway, she blooms.

 

I am transfixed, and utterly reluctant to break the spell. But we’re losing the light.

 

“Jo, uh. I think she said we need to get the back too,” I say, and Katniss spins to face the window. The gloom is gathering outside the window, chasing the orange and amber light. I adjust my reflector, trying to take advantage of the last bits of natural light. And when I glance back, Katniss has lifted her hands above her head, resting against the glass. Partly silhouetted, she’s all long limbs and clean lines, as evocative as any Vogue model ever could be.

 

Her legs, encased in those hot-as-sin boots, stretch on forever, disappearing under a skirt that’s too tiny to even be called clothing. And above that, inches of undulating spine bared to my greedy eyes as her top pulls upward. Fuck, she’s hot. 

 

I snap a few pictures, adjusting my aperture to the light. Then Katniss arches her back. It’s an innocent movement, designed probably to work out a kink in her spine. But it has the unintended consequence of lifting that ridiculous skirt just a little higher. Exposing just a hint of ass cheek, gently rounded and smooth as silk. Alluring and enticing.

 

Absolutely nothing like an adolescent boy. 

 

A sordid vision of grabbing those sweet swells as I thrust into her, pressed against the cold window glass, flashes before my eyes and I groan. I can’t help it. As I lose the battle I’ve been waging for an hour against my recalcitrant dick, the pained little moan that escapes me catches her attention. Her eyes meet mine in the window reflection. For a moment we simply stare at each other.

 

Then she smirks.

 

Her eyes never leaving mine, she arches more, the skirt lifts almost to the point of obscenity, bare millimeters of fabric hiding her charms. I’m fairly certain that she’s not wearing panties. I’m nearly hyperventilating, watching her face in the window, watching her ass sway just slightly, clicking the shutter remote convulsively. The vixen reflected in the window glass bites her lip, then her tongue sneaks out, swiping along the sting, leaving a glossy slick in its wake. Those perfect peach lips purse, then form my name. “Peeta,” reflection-Katniss whispers, the word a puff of fog condensing on the glass. Silver eyes beckon, I’m powerless to resist.

 

She turns just slightly to look at me over her shoulder, eyes hooded and so fucking sexy. I click off a few more frames of her come-hither stare, of her sweet ass and firm breasts and long, long legs silhouetted by the sunset. Then she whispers my name again. 

 

I go to her. 

 

She's still facing the window, hands against the glass when I stand behind her, not quite touching her. “You are so sexy,” I rasp in her ear, and she shudders, pressing backwards, closing the space between us. My arm wraps around her waist as naturally as in my dreams, palm splaying over her flat stomach, the skin warm and soft under my fingers. I lean into her, burying my face in the silken cloud of her hair. She smells like the woods, and a meadow of wildflowers. She smells like home. 

 

“Like what you see?” she murmurs, her voice deeper than usual, husky and hot. I groan again, thrusting just a bit against the small of her back so she can feel just how much I like it. She sighs and tilts her head sideways, baring that sweet spot where her neck meets her shoulder, and I don't resist. 

 

Each open-mouthed kiss I press into her hot skin evokes another sigh, a little wiggle of her hips. She reaches up and slides her fingers through my hair, tugging and I thrust against her again, harder. She moans, and I can feel the sound in my dick, throbbing for her. 

 

Though her hand remains firmly entwined in my hair, I free my own to explore, skimming along hot skin and cool leather to cup one perfect breast. My name is a breathless plea on her lips, and the words I've always struggled with around her spill out. “I have wanted you ever since I first noticed girls were different than boys,” I murmur. “Have always dreamed of touching you like this. It's always been you.” Then I slide my hand into that ridiculous bustier. 

 

Her head tips back, landing on my shoulder, her sharp pants caress my cheek and I squeeze and stoke her breast, firm and perfectly proportioned. Real. “Do you want me?” I whisper, lust and vulnerability battling in my voice. 

 

“Yes,” she sighs, the first thing she's said other than my name. I sink my teeth into her shoulder, hard enough to mark her and she mewls. Then she's pulling away, leaving me confused and horror-struck. But just as quickly she spins, I catch a glimpse of her silver eyes flickering like candles before her body is again pressed to mine, hands back in my hair, tugging me to her. 

 

Kissing Katniss Everdeen is the most incredible experience of my life so far. Her lips are soft but demanding, controlling. And I meet her stroke for stroke, tasting and exploring. Her hand slip from my hair, slide down to wrap around my neck and I draw her closer, cradling her against me. She slows our kiss, drawing back, tapering to soft pecks, until we're simply holding each other, lips brushing languidly,  intimately. “Go out with me,” I whisper. She nods. 

 

The quiet beep of a keycard pulls us apart. Johanna. She wanders in, less blustery than before, but smirks when she sees us standing so close. “Did you get my pictures, Breadboy, or is your camera card full of porn for the spank bank?”

 

I snort, she's teasing, but I have to bite back the urge to tell her it's a little of both. Katniss groans. “Are you ever not vulgar?” She scowls at Jo, who is chuckling now. Then she turns those murcury eyes back to mine. “Have you eaten?” It's barely a whisper, shy and uncertain, as if I hadn't just had my hand in her shirt and my tongue down her throat. 

 

I shake my head and she shrugs, needing, I think, for me to make the next move. “There's a great diner, not far from here. Do you want to get dinner together?” Please say yes, I chant in my head. She nods. 

 

“Take off that outfit before you cream yourself all over my expensive material,” Jo barks, bemused, and Katniss flips her the bird before stalking away. 

 

I show Jo some of the earlier images on my camera back and she's genuinely pleased, even if she tries to disguise it. Then she wanders off to help Katniss while I pack up my gear. 

 

Lost in my thoughts, when I hear his voice I don't immediately register it as real. “Mellark?” My jaw nearly hits the floor at the sight of Gale Hawthorne hovering in the doorway, stupidly tall and imposing. Gale Hawthorne who Katniss dated all through high school. I haven't seen him in Twelve in at least a year and a half. Stupidly, I thought he was gone. 

 

“Gale,” I say, shaking his hand. I'm nothing if not polite. 

 

“I didn't know you were out here, man,” he says, and seems almost pleased to see me. The feeling is not mutual. I shrug. “I've only been here a few months,” he says. “Moved out here to be closer to my girlfriend.” He grins; I don't know if I've ever seen Hawthorne grin before. He was always so serious when we were younger. “Hey,” he says. “Does Catnip know you're here?”

 

As if summoned, Katniss appears from the other room. “Gale!” she shouts, running to him, jumping into his arms. He laughs and spins her around, hugging her tightly. “I thought you weren't back until next week?”

 

My heart clenches at the sight of them. Just like in high school, they make a beautiful couple, both long and lean, attractive. And it hits me like lightning - this thing between Katniss and me? It was all for the camera. 

 

I'm a fool. 

 

I shove what's left of my gear into my bag haphazardly and head for the door. “Peeta?” Katniss says with confusion. “Where are you going? I thought…” she trails off. I turn to face her. She's changed out of the costume, wearing jeans and a slim black tee, the worst of the war paint scrubbed from her pretty face. Even her hair is back to normal, braided over one shoulder the way she always wore it when we were young. How many times has I sketched that braid in the margins of my notebook?

 

“Figured you'd want to be with Gale,” I grumble, fiddling with the strap of my bag. 

 

“Oh,” her expression lightens, the little worry line softening. “I'll see him later. I'd rather spend time with you now.” She slides her hands into her back pockets, which thrusts her small breasts forward. Fuck. She's gorgeous, but I don't know what kind of game she's playing, and I don't want to be a pawn in it. 

 

“But he just got back?” She shrugs. “Don't you want to catch up with him?”

 

“I think he's got plans,” she says, her expression wry. I'm confused as hell. 

 

“Plans that are more important than you?” Now I'm teetering on pissed. What kind of plans could possibly be more important than your girlfriend? If she were mine, I'd make certain she knew nothing mattered more to me that her. 

 

Katniss laughs. “I expect he wants to spend time with his girlfriend,” she says, echoing my thoughts and leaving me completely perplexed. I glance over at Gale, only to find he’s gone. And then, as if on cue, I hear groans from the other room. Groans clearly of the sexual variety. 

 

What the fuck?

 

As the noises increase in volume, words join the mix. Jo, mostly. Clearly she's happy to see Gale. Now freed from make-up, I can see a blush steal across Katniss’s cheeks. “Ugh,” she says. “They're like rabbits. Let's get out of here. It's only going to get worse.”

 

I am completely lost. She grabs my elbow, propelling me out the door. “Gale is with Jo?” I manage. Katniss nods, glancing at me as if I'm a little slow. “He’s not with you?”

 

Katniss stops dead in the hallway and snorts, the strangest little noise, cute and unfettered. “Gross, Peeta. Gale is my cousin. And this isn't Kentucky.”

 

“In high school?” I say, and she laughs. 

 

“Was my cousin then too.”

 

“You were always together.”

 

“Well yeah, he was pretty much the only one who'd put up with me.” She shrugs. “I didn't have many friends.”

 

“He might have been part of the reason why,” I grumble. And she laughs, just lightly. But she sobers quickly. 

 

“Do you really think if I had a boyfriend I'd have kissed you? I'm not like that.”

 

Deep down, I know that's true. “I just thought, I don't know. We were in our own world, and I came onto you pretty hard.” I drop my gaze to the plush carpet. “I guess I thought maybe it wasn't real.”

 

“Peeta,” she breathes, and echoes of our photo shoot flood my mind, make my dick twitch. She steps closer, looking up at me through lashes just as thick without all of the goop on them. I can see a smattering of faint freckles scattered across her nose. “Do you know why I come into the bakery so often?” she asks, her words skating over my lips. I can almost taste the answer. 

 

“You really like cheese buns?” She laughs again, soft puffs of pleasure that tease my senses. 

 

“That too,” she admits. “But mostly I come to see you.” She reaches for my free hand, twines our fingers together. “I only agreed to model for Jo when she said it was her friend Peeta who would be taking the pictures.” 

 

I swallow hard at her confession. “Really?”  She nods. “Is this real?”

 

“Real,” she says. 

  
  


  
  
…………………...   
…………………...

  
  



	42. Bless This Mess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is unapologetic PwP, there’s absolutely no storyline, just plain old smut. Rated E, most definitely, for language and graphic sexual content.

 

##  **Bless This Mess**

**rated most definitely E**

* * *

Peeta Mellark’s once-pristine kitchen is trashed, flour coating the warm wood flooring and nearly every other surface, the sink overflowing with dishes, a strange burnt-sugar tang in the air. But the disruption in his kitchen - his pride and joy - barely commands any of his attention. Because standing in the middle of the chaos, dishevelled, barefoot and wearing a white tank top that’s wet to translucence, is the most beautiful woman in the world. Katniss.

She’s leaning over the island he made and installed himself, scowling deeply not at the hand-rubbed reclaimed wood, but at an old recipe book, one that at a glance he knows used to belong to his grandmaman.

Wisps of her hair float around her face as she huffs in annoyance, one flour-coated toe running idly up and down the back of her bare batter-flecked leg, coaxing his eyes upward to the hem of her itty bitty shorts, the slight swell of firm asscheek just barely visible. Her hands tap a staccato rhythm where they’re wrapped around the countertop. He barely bites back a laugh at the abject frustration painting her lovely features as she tries to parse out meaning from the handwritten French lines. He hasn’t the first clue what’s going on, but he’s intrigued, and more than a little excited.

They haven’t been dating very long, but they’ve been friends forever, and Peeta’s been in love with Katniss for longer than he’s known what the words mean. Does she know how many of his fantasies involve her exactly where she is now - half-naked and filthy in his kitchen? He bites the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from groaning, but his cock twitches hopefully.

He’d like to stand and watch her forever, but her voice shatters his daydream. “Feck you,” she mutters, half under her breath, and Peeta can’t stop a surprised snort from erupting. Her head snaps up, gorgeous face contorting in confusion and horror. “Peeta?” she squeaks. “You’re not supposed to be home for hours! I wasn’t expecting you yet.”

Peeta laughs, rich and full. “I can see that.” Katniss glances around the kitchen and flushes.

“I was gonna clean up,” she says, scowling, crossing her arms. His eyes are drawn to the way her posture forces her pert breasts forward. Not only is her camisole wet, but she’s braless too, the dusky outline of her nipples beckoning. She’s insanely sexy, and he doesn’t even care what she’s up to, he has his own plans now.

“Oh love,” he murmurs, advancing on her slowly, a patient predator. “Cleaning can wait. I think we should make a bigger mess first.”

Before she can protest, he’s on her, filling his hands with the tempting swells of her ass, even as he leans in to capture her lips in a searing kiss. He wants to go slow, to tease her, to make her beg, but instead he’s startled by how urgently he needs her, and by the ferocity of her own response. Her arms wrap around his neck and she buries her fingers in his curls, tugging sharply, making his cock jump as if they’re directly connected. Peeta pulls her closer, feels her muscles taut and trembling, her heart pounding in concert with his own and he groans against her lips.

“Do you have any idea,” he gasps as she shifts to sucking on the pulse point in his neck, something that is always his undoing. “How sexy you are?” She merely hums, the vibrations against his skin chasing away the last of his decorum, driving him crazy with lust.

Katniss yelps when he uses his almost bruising grip on her ass to hoist her onto the island. A metallic clang rings through the space as a bowl careens over the side of the counter, disappearing from sight and mind. He rids her of that indecent scrap of tank top, then feasts on her breasts, small but sensitive. “Peeta,” she keens, arching against him, holding his head firmly as if trying to thrust even more of her flesh into his hungry mouth and he groans.

Without tearing his mouth away, he starts to work on the button of her itty bitty denim shorts. She rocks against his hand as he does. She’s so responsive, and Peeta loves that about her, one of so many things. He’s practically growling when he finally manages to shimmy the denim scrap down her long lean thighs. But when he tugs on her panties, she stops him. “Isn’t that, uh,” she moans, half-distracted as his fingers brush against her sex impatiently. “Isn’t that kind of unsanitary?”

Peeta freezes, fingers pressed against her sopping panties, one turgid nipple still in his mouth. He releases her with a wet pop and lifts his eyes, twinkling with mirth, to lock onto her hazy silver gaze. “Really?” he says, one eyebrow arched deviously. And she laughs softly, glancing at the mess all around them.

“Right. Well then,” she murmurs, helping him slip the last bit of fabric she’s wearing off, then leaning back on her elbows while he shudders at his fantasy come true: Katniss Everdeen, bare and splayed on his rustic farmhouse island.

He sucks in a deep breath, hands idly stroking her thighs as his eyes rove hungrily over her flawless olive skin. He almost can’t believe this is real. After so many years hoping, wishing, dreaming, she’s really his. Uncertainty flickers in her silver eyes as he stares, rapt. “Peeta?” she questions, and his eyes snap up to hers.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes, awe and relief and disbelief in every word. “I’m so lucky.”

She smiles in understanding and sits up again to cup his face. “This is real,” she whispers, thumbs stroking his cheeks. “So real.” Then she kisses him and he can taste the love.

When her hands slip down to tug at his shirt buttons, he pulls away just enough to assist her until they’re skin to skin. She sighs and he moans. His fingers skim up and down her back, reading her desire in the riot of goosebumps that erupt in the wake of his touch.

With Katniss sitting on the counter, they’re nearly the same height. He groans as she wraps her lean calves around him, pulling him tightly against her. The softness of her breasts pressed into his chest, her legs cool against the scorching skin of his narrow waist, he’s died and somehow gone to heaven, he’s sure.

He kisses her, savours her, nibbles on her lips like a decadent treat. But his cock is throbbing and his head is spinning with lust and he wants to act out his fantasy so badly he can almost taste it. Can almost taste her.

Katniss squeaks in surprise when he pulls back and tugs her ass to the very edge of the counter. His name falls in a pained gasp as he pulls her legs over his shoulders, nuzzling the sensitive skin of her inner thighs with his stubbled cheeks. “Oh god,” she breathes.

She’s so wet for him he can see her glistening, can smell her arousal, so intoxicating it drives him nearly mad. But he wants to draw it out, to torment her, to wring every drop of pleasure from her willing body. He drags his tongue over her flesh, inching ever closer to where he knows she wants him. Needs him. Kisses and nips the delicate skin while she squirms and begs, her pleas like erotic music. “Do you know,” he breathes, the words ghosting across her pussy. She whimpers. “How long I’ve wanted to do this?”

Her reply morphs into a strangled cry as he places a hot, open-mouthed kiss to her mound. “The whole time I was building this kitchen, I fantasized about having you just like this, spread wide and waiting for me.” Then the teasing stops. He lowers his hungry mouth to her, his tongue tracing a long languid path along her wet centre, from entrance to clit.

A crock of wooden utensils tips, toppling onto the countertop and clattering to the floor as Katniss flops backwards, her fingers tracing lovenotes in the layer of flour coating the wood when she claws the worktop, grappling for something to anchor her. Peeta is relentless, holding her spread before him, a buffet just for him. He devours her, licking and sucking and even nipping her with gentle presses of his teeth until she shatters, head tipped back, wailing prayer and praise to the pendant lights above them.

He continues to lick her through her climax, prolonging the ecstasy, enjoying the evidence of her approval. Loving that he’s the one making her fall apart. Nothing makes him hotter than pleasuring her. But all too soon, she’s tugging at his hair. “C’mere,” she says, her voice hoarse and drunken. She’s half propped up on an elbow, lidded eyes shining, dishevelled hair flour-streaked and framing her face like dandelion fluff.

She’s his every dream come true.

Gathering her in his arms, Peeta kisses her again, love and gratitude in every sweep of his tongue. Katniss sighs, lapping her own essence from his lips, fingernails tracing tickling trails across his shoulders and down his back. “That was so hot,” he murmurs between sweet kisses. “So much better than I imagined.” He’d be content to simply hold her and kiss her, bask in the glow of her pleasure. But Katniss, it seems, has other ideas.

“Do you want to hear my fantasy, Peeta?” she croons. Fuck yes he does. He pulls back to meet her eyes, glinting with mischief.

She slides off the counter. She’s so graceful, so in control of every movement of her body that even that simple motion is erotic. Peeta is utterly bewitched. He always has been, where she’s concerned.

Katniss stands before him, miles of tanned, toned skin bared, glistening with a light sheen of sweat and flour. He can’t keep his hands to himself, skimming over the curve of her hip, gliding upward to cup one perfect breast. “Tell me,” he begs. But she only levers up on her tiptoes, wraps her arms around him and kisses him hard.

When she pulls back, he’s panting, squirming. “You,” she smiles, dropping a hand to stroke him through his slacks. His eyes nearly roll back in his head; he’s already so close. “Always you.” Katniss’s eyes are alight with mirth, but also with sincerity, and it makes Peeta’s heart catch in his throat. That she loves him, wants him,  _fantasizes about him_  still blows his mind.

She spins in the small space between him and the counter, leaning forward, in almost the same position he found her in earlier. Except now, her sweet bare ass is rubbing against the front of his trousers as she wiggles her hips just a bit. “I was imagining you finding me in your kitchen.” Her voice is husky and lust-choked. He bends forward, covers her with his body as he licks a long line up her spine. “Just like this,” she gasps.

“What happens next?” he breathes into her skin.

“Then you have your way with me.”

Peeta groans, low and needy. “Tell me,” he begs, hands sliding around to cup those perfect tits again, plucking her nipples, swollen and stiff. “Tell me what you want.”

“Peeta,” she whimpers, her hips canting in time with his fingers. She doesn’t do dirty talk, he knows that, but he’s so far gone, so hot and desperate that he needs her words. He needs to hear them.

“Please, Katniss.” It’s so pained it’s almost a cry. One hand slides lower, dipping between her thighs, finding her ready for him. But he waits, stroking her maddenly slowly, fleeting touches designed to arouse and inflame, but not give her the relief she’s trembling for.

“Take me,” she whispers.

“Take you where?” he teases, and she makes an irritated little noise in the back of her throat that almost makes him laugh.

She pushes back against him, grinding against his cock in a way that makes the amusement die. She looks over her shoulder, pins him with that sultry silver gaze. “Fuck me,” she says, holding his eyes. “Hard.”

Peeta’s hands shake violently as he wrestles with his belt, not even taking his pants off, simply shimmying them low enough to free his aching erection. Katniss licks her lips and makes a soft sound of longing. She spreads her legs wide, arching her back and offering him the most tempting view. Then he’s plunging into her, feral and uncontrolled, and they both cry out in erotic unison. He stays motionless, almost cross-eyed with pleasure, until she wiggles her ass in a silent plea and he finally begins to move.

He’s torn between the almost desperate urge to take her hard and fast and the deep-seated need to love her gently, reverently. His balls are tingling, his gut clenching, his breath coming in shallow gasps as he rolls his hips, sliding in and out of her hot velvet grip with iron tight control, hands flexing almost helplessly on her hips as he watches the place where they’re joined. “Oh fuck,” he chokes, barely holding back.

“Peeta.” His name in her voice is a siren song, he’ll do anything she asks. She smirks. “Take it.”

He almost laughs, even bent over the island, pinned underneath him, she controls him completely. “I love you,” he whispers, just before sinking his teeth into her shoulder.

Then he fucks her.

The kitchen fills with the sounds of slapping skin and grunts, low moans and curses. His hand wraps around hers where it’s braced against the counter, a sweet anchor as he slams into her again and again and again. A litany of filth and praise falls from his lips to caress her ear and she shudders.

The first flutters of her release triggers his own, two more hard thrusts and he’s coming, head tipped back, howling, his entire body tense and trembling as he spurts searing jets deep inside her.

His knees won’t support his weight; they both slither to the floor, shaking and panting. He pulls her into his lap, she’s boneless and pliant, moulding her body to his own. He can feel her quivering where they’re pressed together. For several long minutes, they float on a breathless cloud of euphoria.

Then he can feel her smile. “Wow,” she breathes. “That went better than I hoped.”

“Hmmm?” He’s dazed, still drifting in the afterglow, stroking her damp skin distractedly.

Her musical laughter against his throat snaps him out of it, at least a little, and he looks down at her smiling face with a goofy grin of his own. “Were you trying to seduce me?” he jokes, but she nods shyly.

“I had it all planned,” she admits, tucking her head under his chin again. “Candlelit dinner, wine… but you came home too early.”

“I think I came home at exactly the right time,” he laughs. “But we can do it all again after dinner if you like.” She slaps his chest, and he catches her hand, kissing her fingers. “What are you making anyway?” he asks. She groans.

“I was trying to make your grandmother’s tourtière. Your dad said it’s your favourite.”  Peeta can’t stop a huge smile from stealing across his lips. His grandmaman’s traditional meat pie is hands down the meal he loves best, but he hasn’t had it in years. “But I couldn’t figure out one of the ingredients. I took apart your entire spice cabinet looking for it.”

Peeta runs the recipe through his head. There’s nothing particularly strange about it, chunks of meat and potato in a shortcrust pastry.

Katniss stands on shaky fawn legs, grimacing slightly, and reaches for the ancient book that somehow managed to be the only thing they hadn’t knocked to the floor. She settles back on his lap, tracing the spindly script with her fingertip. “There,” she says. “Feck you.”

He has to bite the inside of his cheek hard to keep from laughing, but her scowl suggests she notices. “ _Fécule_ ,” he says when he’s calmed somewhat, knowing she hates it when he corrects her French pronunciation, but unable to resist. “It means starch, though she means cornstarch here.”

“Seriously?” Katniss looks distastefully around the room. “I tore this place apart looking for cornstarch? I thought it was some magical French secret ingredient.”

He does laugh now, and after a few scowling moments, Katniss joins in. “Well, since you’re home now you can help me finish,” she says.

“I have a better idea,” he grins. “Let’s go have a long, hot shower together.” He draws a figure eight in the floury mess coating her shoulder. “Then we can get a pizza.” He kisses away her pout. “And I’ll clean the kitchen in the morning.”

“Deal.”


	43. Small World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Modern AU. From the Tumblr prompt: I wish you would write a fic where Katniss and Peeta are both single parents. Rated T.

##  **Small World**

**rated T**

* * *

In the small town where Peeta Mellark grew up, he was used to seeing the same people everywhere he turned. It was expected, really, that you’d bump into at least five neighbours, or teachers, or coworkers every trip to the grocery store. That’s how small towns worked.

But this wasn’t his small town. And in the bustling metropolis of just under a million people where he’d moved a year after the divorce, he’d been pretty much anonymous.

Until now.

Of course he’d noticed Archer Everdeen’s mother at meet the teacher night. The raven-haired beauty was hard to miss, with her silver eyes and incredible ass. But sticking his toes back into the dating pool definitely didn’t include the parents of his kindergarten students, however single they might be. (And according to Archer’s file, she was very single).

But Archer was a great kid, friendly and intelligent, hard-working and polite. There wasn’t going to be much need to speak to his mama. Which was a good thing, Peeta reminded himself.

o-o-o

Charlotte needed an afterschool activity, something more active than the arts-and-crafts program the school board offered. And living in the big city, Peeta thought his daughter might benefit from learning a martial art for self-defence, in spite of what his ex-wife thought of the idea (or maybe because of what Delly thought, if he was honest with himself.)

On the first night of karate classes, he met the dojo owner…  _Ms. Everdeen_. She smiled in recognition as he took his seat with the other parents.

Watching her put Charlotte and the rest of the group of pseudo pyjama-clad six- and seven-year-olds through their paces did nothing to diminish his attraction to her. Still, it was nothing more than a coincidence, a consequence of there only being a single dojo in the west end of the city. A pleasant coincidence, to be sure. But nothing more.

o-o-o

But then he arrived for Charlotte’s semi-annual dental cleaning to find Ms. Everdeen and Archer sitting in the waiting room. “I’m starting to think you’re a stalker,” she laughed, her voice richer and more melodic than he remembered. And he grinned back. For five fabulous minutes, he found himself chatting with  _Katniss_ , as she insisted he call her, about the strangeness of giant small towns, before they got called away.

o-o-o

Of the thousands of parks in the city, how was it possible that they frequented the same one? Yet there they were, Archer in the swing, squealing in delight as Katniss pushed him. And Katniss, beautiful Katniss was there, dressed casually in jeans that highlighted that ass so much better than her karate gi did, and a hooded sweater in his favourite colour. Katniss who was rapidly becoming utterly irresistible to him. A stranger, a literal one-in-a-million in this city, but someone he kept seeing everywhere.

In five minute spurts between chasing their respective children, he learned more about her. And damn did like what he learned.

o-o-o

“Charlotte!” a little voice rang through the aquarium, where Peeta - and possibly half the city - had come to avoid the cold November rains. Peeta and his daughter both turned in tandem, twin blue eyes searching the crowd. A mop of ebony hair over silver eyes and a giant gap-toothed grin burst through the mob, waving wildly.

“Archer,” an exhausted Katniss chased after him, reprimand in her voice. “What did I tell you about running off?”

“But it’s Charlotte, mama, and Mr. Mellark. They’re not a strangers.”

o-o-o

“Now which one of us is the stalker?” Peeta smirked from his table at the little cafe where he liked to sketch every other Sunday afternoon, when he was waiting for Delly to bring Charlotte home from her court-mandated visitation. Katniss glanced over at the sound of his voice, her face lighting up.

“Well hello, Peeta,” she said, grabbing her cup and Archer’s from the barista and crossing the few steps to stand before him. Her black hair was loose today, partially covered by a red knit cap, and her cheeks were flushed from the cold. “Come here often?”

“I do,” he admitted, and she wrinkled her nose.

“Huh. My uncle owns this place,” she said, confusion in her voice. “Archer and I come here at least a couple of times a week.”

“No way,” he laughed. “What are the odds?”

Katniss regarded him thoughtfully. “With us,” she said, softly enough that he has to strain to hear her. “Seems like the odds are always in our favour.”

o-o-o

“Somehow I knew I’d see you here,” Katniss laughed, standing with a fidgeting Archer in the slowly-snaking line to see the mall Santa. There were eleven shopping centres in the city that had a Santa display, and three more weeks until Christmas. That she’d be at the one he chose seemed impossible. And yet…

“Well everyone knows that the Bayshore Santa is the only real Santa,” he drawled, moving seamlessly into line beside her. Katniss knelt to greet Charlotte who twirled, showing off her new Christmas dress. Katniss threw back her head, laughing at something Charlotte whispered to her. Peeta was transfixed. Watching his beautiful friend interact with his daughter made something long-dormant flare in Peeta’s gut. Something suspiciously like hope.

o-o-o

It had been a long time since Peeta had last gone to Christmas Eve Mass. But Delly had Charlotte until noon Christmas day (and not a minute later, damn it), and he was lonely and restless, not even certain what he was looking for.

The cathedral downtown was a marvel of Baroque styling, tall and graceful, and it was even more incredible decorated for Christmas with boughs of holly and evergreen, and tall candles flickering. He settled into a crowded pew and let the beauty of it all wash over him.

When the choir took their places to the side of the altar, the hair on the back of his neck stood up. There she was, robed in regal burgundy, just one face in the large group, but the one face that drew him like a magnet.  _Katniss_. He didn’t hear any of the sermon, repeated the prayers by rote, all of his attention focussed only on her. And then she sang a solo.

The sound of her soulful voice crooning  _Mary Did You Know_  struck the congregation silent. Her voice and her words wrapped around his heart, freeing it from its stubborn confines, fluttering foolishly, laid bare.

And he knew, in that moment, that he was a goner.

o-o-o

“Fancy seeing you here,” he smirked, holding the door open for Katniss. She slapped his chest gently with the back of her hand.

“You invited me, doofus,” she laughed, levering up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.

“That I did,” he said, ushering her into his modest apartment. “Where’s Archer tonight?” he asked, though he knew already.

“With my mother,” she grinned. “Until tomorrow afternoon.”

“Delly has Charlotte until four,” he murmured, toying with the strap of her sleek silver top. Despite seeing each other everywhere all of the time, despite having had playdates and family dates and one-child-or-the-other-had-to-come-at-the-last-minute dates, it had taken five, ten, fifteen weeks to arrange a date with neither child present. Though strange coincidences might have pushed them together, attempting to find alone time had left them all but star-crossed.

Until now.

“Nineteen hours,” Katniss sighed, leaning into him. “Let’s not waste a minute of it.” Peeta kissed his agreement into the warm skin of her throat.

Peeta wasn’t sure he believed in fate or providence or serendipity, couldn’t imagine that some giant celestial hand had picked their names from a big glass bowl. But he knew he believed in Katniss, and believed that what was developing between them was real.

And that was good enough for him.


	44. My Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My darling friend, @mega-aulover (also known as mega-idea-lady!!) sent me a gorgeous quote (When I touch you, I touch happiness) and challenged me to everlark it, and she’d do the same. I’m nothing if not obedient ;) Rated K for kinda cheesy ;)

 

* * *

It’s the giggling that alerts him to the fact that something is very wrong.

Katniss, his best friend and roommate, is leaning against their kitchen door frame, giggling like a schoolgirl. But Katniss doesn’t giggle. Even when she was a schoolgirl, Katniss wasn’t a giggler. “Kat?” he calls out.

She jumps, whirling around, almost losing her balance, and that worries Peeta even more. He’s never, not once in twenty years of friendship, been able to sneak up on Katniss before. She has superhero-level hearing and incredible reflexes. He reaches out to steady her, and she leans into him, pressing her small body against his chest.

“Hey Peeta,” she says, drawing out the vowel sound, then giggles again. Her olive-toned cheeks are flushed, silver eyes glassy. If he didn’t know any better he’d swear…

“Are you… are you  _drunk_?”

She grins up at him, heavy-lidded and so damned sexy he has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from saying something that might destroy their friendship. There’s a permanent divot there from how often he’s had to hold back words like  _I want you so bad_. But Katniss has never seen him as more than a friend, so he keeps his long-held crush tightly in check. It’s hard, though, when he can feel her soft breasts against him, only her sweater and his button down between them.

“Nooooooo,” she says, but it sounds like yes to Peeta. “Was just havin’ some eggnog and readin’ our Christmas cards.” She wiggles her hand, where it’s still pressed against his chest and sure enough, there’s a piece of cardstock clutched in her fingers.

“The eggnog I made for Haymitch?” Peeta makes a batch of heavily rum-ladened traditional eggnog for their crotchety neighbour every year. He’d been intending on delivering it tonight, along with a platter of Christmas cookies.

“Was for Haymish? Ohhhh no, ssssorry!” Her expression is all wide-eyed innocence and Peeta snickers. With anyone else, he’d assume artifice, but Katniss is a terrible liar. He knows she genuinely didn’t realize. Though how she couldn’t taste that much rum is beyond him, just the smell of the concoction is enough to make Peeta tipsy. As if in response, Katniss sniffles and slumps a little more, and he remembers that’s why she’s home today. One of her plague-ridden students gave her a nasty cold.

“How much eggnog did you have anyway?” The fingers of her free hand flex against his chest, lifting one after the other as if counting, and she scrunches her face in deep thought, pink tongue sticking out between her teeth. When, after a protracted silence, she merely shrugs, he snickers. He hasn’t seen Katniss inebriated since  _the peach schnapps incident_  in their freshman dorm, more than seven years ago. He’d forgotten how completely adorable she is when her defences drop. “Come on, Sweetheart,” he says, amusement colouring his words. “You’re sloshed. Let’s get you settled in the living room.”

Katniss is tiny, but sick and hopped up on rum and cold medicine she’s unsteady. After struggling just to guide her as far as the hall, Peeta finally simply scoops her into his arms and carries her. She giggles more. “My hero,” she breathes, and while he thinks she’s teasing, her silver eyes are bright and soft with something he can’t quite name.

It’s a challenge to get to the next room, with the way she’s looking at him, and how the fingers of her free hand toy with the hair on the back of his neck. He can’t resist pressing a kiss to her sweetly scented ebony hair, and she sighs, nestling her head against his shoulder, her lips just grazing his neck. Times like these feed his daydreams, he’d like to freeze the moment and live in it forever. But all too soon, he’s lowering her onto the wide leather sofa, the one they chose together.

When he moves to stand again, she tightens her arms. “No,” she says. “Stay with me. Please, Peeta?” His heart cracks a little at her intensity. She’ll never understand the effect she has on him.

“Let me get you some water first,” he whispers, the desire to plant a kiss on those perfect pouty lips almost overwhelming. He takes a few deep breaths as he fills a glass, to get his libido under control, then heads back to join Katniss.

It wouldn’t have surprised him to find her passed out. Instead, she’s sitting upright, reading the card in her hand with a grin. When Peeta settles beside her, she hands him the card. It’s addressed to  _Peeniss_ , and he barks out a laugh. “Finnick,” Katniss says, leaning into him. Peeta wraps an arm around her shoulder. “That’s what I was laughing at when you came home.”

“Trust Finnick,” he chuckles.

“It’s nice, though,” she sighs, snuggling into his chest as he reclines against the plush cushions.

“Being called Peeniss?”

“No! Seeing both of our names on the card.” She pauses, yawning. “All of our Christmas cards come to us jointly. Like we’re a pair. I like it. Feels nice.” Peeta wraps a second arm around her, holding her even more closely, cradled against him. She’s drunk, he knows she wouldn’t be so candid otherwise. But he can’t help wondering how much truth there is in her rambling. “I like us,” she murmurs against his collar.

“I like us too,” he says, but she shakes her head, strands of glossy hair tickling his face.

“No, I mean I like us. I like you. More than that.” She trails off, and Peeta’s heart slams against his chest. He tries to remind himself that she’s out of it, that she isn’t really in command of her words. But in response to his silence, she lifts her head and searches his face.

After what feels like an eternity staring into her eyes, she raises one small, cool hand to cup his cheek. “You’re my heart, Peeta. When I touch you, I touch happiness.” Her thumb strokes the stubble dotting his jaw and he leans into her caress, eyes slipping shut. The aching sincerity in her words is almost more than he can bear. He longs to tell her that she’s his heart too, and so much more. That he loves her, has loved her half his life and knows he’ll never stop. But he can’t. He knows this isn’t real.

Katniss slumps against him again, snuggled half on top of him. He strokes her back, her hair, as her breathing evens out. Eventually, he falls asleep too.

They wake up hours later, entwined like vines, Peeta’s neck stiff from the odd angle they slept in, Katniss grumpy from the cold and the waning alcohol in her system.

He’s tense, not knowing how much she remembers of earlier, worrying about how awkward things are likely to get between them. As they lie face to face, he tucks a lock of her hair behind her ear and tries to smile despite the lingering ache of longing wrapped around his heart. Her scowl falters and falls, replaced by confusion. Then she touches his face, just like she had earlier, and smiles tentatively. “Real,” she whispers, answering the question he’s too afraid to give voice to. “My happiness. My heart.”


	45. Glühwein and Girl Talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lovely @litlifelover and I have some of the most interesting discussions, and hopefully she’ll forgive me for turning one of them into this little drabble.

“You can’t have all of the Chrises, Katniss, you have to save at least one for me,” Madge giggled, the warm ruby liquid in her cup threatening to slosh over the edge. **  
**

“Careful with that, drunkie,” Katniss snickered. “Peeta will be cheesed if you spill  _Glühwein_  all over his couch.” Madge rolled her eyes at the botched pronunciation.

“Who are you calling drunkie, drunkie?” Madge giggled again, but put the cup down anyway. “Peeta never gets cheesed,” she continued. “Your roomie is the most even-tempered guy I’ve ever met.”

“He has to be, to put up with me.” Katniss winked, and grabbed another cheese puff from the tray Peeta, her best friend forever, and roommate since they finished college a year and a half ago, had prepared earlier. He’d baked several trays of treats - both savoury and sweet - for her Christmas  _girls night in_. But six hours into her annual celebration of mulled wine and bitching, the trays were nearly empty and all that remained of the Glühwein was two very drunk women and the lingering scent of orange and cloves. “Fine,” Katniss said, returning to their conversation. “I’ll give you one Chris, your choice… but I’m keeping Henry Cavill.”

“Oh maaaaan,” Madge groaned. “You have  _three_  Chrises, you have to at least share Henry, I’m sorry, those are the rules.”

“Well,” Katniss acquiesced. “Henry is so big, we could share and not even notice that we’re both clinging to him.”

Madge burst into laughter. “Although, if he keeps the mustache, you can have him.”

Katniss shuddered. “I hate the porn ‘stache too.”  
  
“Okay then, you get three Chrises, I get one, and we share Henry … you’re getting a better deal here, girlfriend.”  
  


Katniss nodded. “I think you need one more to add to your harem.”

Madge picked up her cup again. “I can’t think of a single attractive man now. What’s in this stuff anyway?”

“Uhm,” Katniss wrinkled her brow, thinking back to earlier when Peeta had been cooking and she’d been assisting. “Cloves. Cinnamon. Cardamom. Orange peel. Peach juice. And four bottles of wine.” Minus the glass Peeta had poured for her as a  _helper payment_.

“It’s sooooo good,” Madge sighed, draining the last of her cup. “Oh! Tom Hardy. Add him to my list.” Katniss scowled.

“I just don’t get what you see in him.”

Madge grinned. “He looks like Gale.” Katniss rolled her eyes. As much as she loved Madge, being reminded of her friend’s perfect relationship just made Katniss all the more aware of her own complete lack of romantic prospects. Hence, the imaginary harem she was building of hot men.

“What about Armie Hammer?”

“Who’s that again?”

“Madge! He’s only the hottest guy on the planet!”

“Talking about me, are you?” Katniss looked up with a start to see her best friend walking through the apartment door. Peeta crossed the room, unwinding the scarf from around his neck and shaking snow from his overlong curls. He stopped in front of her, leaning down to press a kiss to her hair.

“You’re home early,” Katniss said, but the smile was clear in her voice. Peeta laughed, holding out his arm for her to read his wristwatch.

“Rye and I closed out the bar,” he said. “It’s half past two, Kitten.” Katniss flushed with pleasure at the nickname that only he was ever allowed to use.

“I thought you were going back to his place?” she said, gazing up at his wide smile and winter-kissed cheeks.

“I thought so too, but he decided he’d rather keep company with a girl he picked up at the bar.” Katniss snorted; that was pretty typical of Peeta’s brother.

“And you couldn’t find a one-night-stand of your own?” Madge laughed, but Katniss frowned. Peeta hadn’t brought any girls to their apartment the entire time they’d been roommates, and the idea of him doing so now made her strangely uncomfortable.

Peeta stood, rubbing the back of his neck as he turned to acknowledge Madge. “Ah, no, wasn’t looking,” he said. “And how are you, lovely Madge?”

“I am a little tipsy on this very nice Glühwein you made for us.”

“I’m surprised Katniss let you have any of it,” he laughed. “It’s her favourite you know.” He started towards the kitchen, calling back over his shoulder, “Where are the rest of the ladies?”

“Their boyfriends all picked them up already,” Katniss called back, pouting. Except for Madge, the others had all bailed early, anxious to spend time with their significant others.

“Meant more wine for us,” Madge said, wrapping her arm around Katniss. “But I should really head home too.” Katniss nodded, and Madge pulled out her phone to text her boyfriend for a ride.

While they waited for Gale to make the four-and-a-half minute drive over to the apartment, Katniss pulled up Armie Hammer in google images. “See,” she slurred. “Totally hot. He’s exactly my type.” She sighed. “So pretty.”

Madge stared at the phone screen for a long time, flipping through image after image with a thoughtful expression. “You know, he looks an awful lot like Peeta.” Madge squinted. “A slightly older Peeta, maybe.”

Katniss snatched the phone from her friend’s hand and gawked at the screen. Bright blue eyes. Ashy blond hair that flopped appealing over his forehead. Perfectly defined pecs. Shit, he really did look like Peeta. Her jaw dropped and she lifted her glassy gaze to Madge’s

Madge was smirking. “And the Chrises, they all kind of look like Peeta too, blondies with big blue eyes…”

“Stop,” Katniss whined, and Madge laughed.

“I’m just saying…” The doorbell ringing put a halt to any further teasing.

Peeta reappeared, wrapping an arm around Katniss as she said goodnight to Madge and Gale. When the door closed, Katniss looked up to find Peeta was gazing down at her, a soft smile lighting his handsome face. “What?” she said, but she was smiling too. It was hard not to smile around Peeta.

“Missed you tonight,” he said. “That’s all.”

“Me too,” she smiled. She twisted in his arms, pivoting to really look at Peeta, whose eyes twinkled in amusement at her inspection. It was true that he resembled Armie Hammer, they were both strikingly handsome. But Armie Hammer didn’t make her Glühwein or cheese buns. Armie Hammer didn’t hold her hand when she was scared or send her flowers when she got that promotion. The more she looked at the beautiful, kind man standing beside her, the more she realized that all of the Chrises and Henrys and Armies in the world couldn’t compare to Peeta. He was the real deal.


	46. Blanket Fort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written on Tumblr in response to @burkygirl's request for a blanket fort everlark drabble. Rated M. Or maybe edging on E?

Between the craziness of the holidays, the back-to-back snowstorms that rendered the roads treacherous for days on end, and the extreme cold that made it impossible to send the kids outdoors to play for more than a few minutes, Katniss was certain she was losing her mind. And it certainly didn’t help that half of Peeta’s staff had the flu. He’d been stuck late at the bakery every night since Christmas, leaving Katniss to deal with her cabin-fevered brood alone.

 

So when her friend Madge called and offered to take the kids for the night, Katniss did what any sane person would do - she gathered up pyjamas and toothbrushes for Willow and the twins and packed them all in the back of her Subaru.

 

Driving back down her long country driveway forty-five minutes later, Katniss began to relax, for the first time in weeks. An evening alone. She could have a long, hot bath, drink a glass of wine, and check Tumblr while awake enough to actually read it. Oh, maybe that incredible mermaid story would have an update? The possibilities were endless…

 

Shucking her boots and coat, she walked into the living room smiling to herself, only to stop dead in her tracks. The room was in complete disarray, blankets and pillows were everywhere, draped and piled over the furniture. Damn, she thought she’d cleaned up all of that crap earlier. Archer must have pulled it all out again while she was wrestling Rye into his snowsuit. As much as she adored her four-year-old sons, they were definitely going to be the death of her.

 

Her sigh looking at the mess was long and loud. So much for a relaxing evening; it was going to take the last of her energy just to refold all of the blankets and schlep them back to the linen closet. But then a mop of golden curls popped out of the chaos, and she jumped. “Peeta?”

 

With his pale curls and mischievous grin, Peeta Mellark was almost the spitting image of his sons, albeit bigger and older. But the glint in his crystalline blue eyes was all his own. 

 

Katniss knew that expression. She  _ loved _ that expression. Warmth spread throughout her, pooling in her core, dashing her annoyance at the mess and the interruption of her solitary plans. “You're home,” she murmured as he held open the flap of what she was beginning to see was a blanket fort and beckoned her inside with a wiggle of his brows. She rolled her eyes, but dropped to her knees to crawl in after him.

 

The fort was far more elaborate than she’d first thought, and while not huge inside, it was perfect for two. Peeta had strung up white twinkle lights and low music hummed from his docking station. And on what she thought was normally their ottoman (though it was hard to tell, all swathed as it was in sheets), sat a bottle of wine and a white bakery box that she hoped was full of Mellark’s famous cheese buns. 

 

(She knew it would be.)

 

Once she’d clambered over the piles of throw cushions to sit beside Peeta, he pulled her into his arms. She was enveloped in warmth, wrapped in the scents of cinnamon and dill that clung to him a like a lover’s caress. Katniss sighed, curling into her husband as he kissed her hair, luxuriating in the comfort and quiet of their cozy little nest. “Gale texted me, let me know he and Madge have the rugrats,” he said. “I called in some favours so I could get home to you early for a change.” He buried his nose in her hair, inhaling deeply.

 

“Favours?” She sighed as his lips slid lower, his breath hot against her ear.

 

“Mmmm,” he agreed. “I might be making the cake for Thresh’s daughter’s sweet sixteen.” 

 

Katniss laughed. “You were already going to make Rue’s birthday cake.” Peeta chuckled too, but the mirth cut off as she dragged her fingers under the hem of his shirt, palming the abdominal muscles that were still firm and flat even after ten years of marriage. Forget the wine and cheese buns, all she really wanted was Peeta. 

 

He growled as her fingers slipped into his waistband. “I’m trying to seduce you here, with wine and treats,” he mumbled. “You’re spoiling my plans.” But the erection he thrust against her hip told her he wasn’t upset in the least. 

 

Peeta slipped the buttons of her flannel shirt open, one by one, dipping his head to kiss each exposed inch of collarbone. Her fingers abandoned their wandering, sliding up to instead tangle in his curls, overlong, just the way she loved them. 

 

She lost herself in sensation as Peeta explored maddeningly slowly, his stubble rasping across her skin. He kissed the soft swells above her simple cotton bra, groaning his appreciation into her flesh. “So sexy,” he whispered. 

 

It hadn't been that long since the last time they'd made love, not really. But the stress and solitude of the past couple of weeks made it feel like forever. She was aching for him, body and soul. “I've missed you so much,” she breathed, then cringed at the vulnerability in her voice. She knew Peeta didn't want to be away so much, knew he hated missing out on their home life. 

 

Peeta lifted his head. “I'm sorry I haven't been here,” he whispered, but she silenced him with a kiss. 

 

“We’re here now,” she said against his lips.

 

“We’re here now,” he agreed. “And I just want to spend every possible minute with you.”

 

“I'll allow it,” Katniss smiled, tugging him to lie on top of her, revelling in the feeling of his solid weight pressing her down. Safe and cherished. 

 

Peeta continued with his controlled exploration, as if he knew intuitively that what she needed at that moment was to be loved slowly, fully, with no distractions. Gentle hands caressed, peeled away each layer reverently, lips and tongue and teeth following, building in intensity until Katniss was nothing but a panting, squirming ball of need. “Please,” she begged. “Please, Peeta.”

 

“Tell me what you want,” he growled, gravel-voiced. Though she was in nothing but panties he was still fully clothed somehow, the seam of his trousers rubbing her just right as he rocked above her. Katniss arched against him, trying to tug off his shirt. 

 

“You,” she gasped.

 

“I’m yours,” he said simply.

 

“Take off your clothes,” she whispered. He knelt between her splayed thighs, head brushing the roof of their blanket fort, static and twinkle-lights haloing him. Katniss licked her lips as he pulled off his tee, baring pale, toned skin kissed by burnished golden hair. He was impossibly hot, even hotter than he had been when they first started dating, way back in high school. She reached for him, stubby fingernails tracing his outer obliques, the oh-so-sexy vee that pointed downwards, beckoning her eyes to follow.

 

She couldn't resist cupping him over his khakis, and he twitched in her hand, his head falling forward, breath escaping in a shuddering moan. “Can you feel the effect you always have on me?” he murmured, thrusting shallowly against her hand. Katniss squeezed her affirmation, earning another guttural groan. 

 

Together, they stripped away the last few garments between them.

 

“You're so wet,” Peeta panted appreciatively as his fingers found her core, circling with a confidence born of years together.

 

“I want you,” she gasped, knowing what that word would do to her husband. Though he was a strong, confident man, the shy teenager who took years to shore up enough courage just to speak to her still lurked in his psyche. Any reminder that she chose him, above everyone else, drove him wild.

 

Peeta kissed her, hard, a kiss flavoured with lust and love and gratitude. Then his huge hands were caressing her thighs, spreading her wide for him. His head dipped, teasing her aching flesh, driving her higher but not letting her get too close to the edge, tormenting even as he worshipped her body until she was begging. She tugged his golden curls, and he acquiesced, sliding back up her body, practically chuckling at her impatience. But when she took him in hand his humour changed into something more carnal. 

 

She guided him home, sighing as he filled her, revelling in the stretch, the burn of his possession. She loved the way Peeta always had to pause when he first entered her, as if the feeling of her body gripping his was so overwhelming it momentarily paralyzed him.

 

Then he was moving, deep, controlled thrusts. Even with the thousands of times they’d done this, Katniss swore it only got better and better. Peeta’s pace never faltered as he kissed and licked and nipped her body, leisurely building her pleasure.

 

She moaned softly against Peeta’s throat, but he lifted his head, locking his lust-hazed gaze with her own. “Let me hear you, Kitten,” he growled. “I want to hear you.” She knew what he meant. Far too often their lovemaking had to be nearly silent, lest they wake the kids. But they were alone, they could be free with their passion. 

 

“Peeta,” she gasped, and his smile turned cocky.

 

“Louder, Kitten,” he said, gripping her thighs to tilt her pelvis, increasing the force of his thrusts and she complied, howling her pleasure to the fabric sky. Peeta cursed, sliding a hand between them, stroking her deftly as she watched him struggle to stay in control.

 

“I’m so close,” she all but wailed and his thumb pressed just a little harder against her pearl, sending her skyrocketing. He followed, his shout of release loud and joyous. Then he collapsed beside Katniss, gathering her into his arms, gasping words of praise.

 

They laid together in perfect post-coital contentment until Katniss’s stomach protested. Peeta laughed, and pulling himself upright, kissed her stomach - softer now, after three children. Then he reached for the bakery box while Katniss watched him, silver eyes glowing with affection.

 

He fed her sips of wine and bites of golden pastry, kissing away the crumbs, the adoring smile never leaving his handsome face. And Katniss felt relaxed and refreshed, for the first time in weeks.

 

“So why the blanket fort?” Katniss asked as she nibbled a second cheese bun. Peeta laughed.

 

“There was a trail of blankets all down the hall when I got home,” he said, and Katniss groaned. She should have known Archer had been behind this after all. “I was going to put them away, but then I figured why not have fun with them instead?” Peeta pulled her closer, dislodging one of the quilts to wrap around her naked body. She hummed her approval.

 

“I like it,” she admitted. “Our own little cozy cave. Like a refuge from reality.” Peeta’s eyes were alight with pleasure. Marriage and parenthood and adult responsibilities did little to dampen his boyish enthusiasm for life, his lightness, his goodness, and Katniss couldn't help loving him for it. He always brought whimsy and play into their lives, even when the day to day drudgery was almost overwhelming. Especially then, really.

 

“We could stay here all night,” he teased, but Katniss shook her head. 

 

“Cozy, yes, but far less comfortable than our bed,” she laughed. “And I think I’m lying on crumbs.” She sat up reluctantly. 

 

Peeta sighed with mock annoyance, but his eyes twinkled. “Oh all right.” He handed Katniss the wine bottle and half-empty bakery box. “You go on ahead, I’ll put away the pillows and blankets.” 

 

“Leave them, at least until the kids get home tomorrow.” Katniss glanced around at the twinkle lights, the impressive way the roof was suspended using one of Willow’s skipping ropes. All three kids would be enamoured with Peeta’s creation, and it would doubtless buy her a solid forty minutes of peace. 

 

She might get to read Tumblr yet…


End file.
